


Sovereign Reason

by Tamburlaine_the_great



Category: Chalet School - Elinor M. Brent-Dyer, Lord Peter Wimsey - Dorothy L. Sayers, YATES Dornford - Works
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/M, Multiple Crossovers, Pre-War, Shrewsbury College, mostly - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-28
Updated: 2021-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-14 13:00:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 23,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29046522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tamburlaine_the_great/pseuds/Tamburlaine_the_great
Summary: Eustacia Benson has come to Shrewsbury College, Oxford to read Classics, not waste her time falling in love. Yet, love blossoms even so.
Relationships: Eustacia Benson/Gerald Wimsey Viscount St George, Harriet Vane/Peter Wimsey
Comments: 4
Kudos: 15





	1. My Reverie

**Author's Note:**

> This multi-crossover fic was originally written in 100-word drabble form and posted in the Sally Denny Library on the Chaletian Bulletin Board. I’ve since revised it to iron out some of the infelicities resulting from using that format.
> 
> There are a number of original characters, several of whom are daughters of characters who appear in Dornford Yates’s fiction. I hope you don’t need to be familiar with the source(s) to enjoy their presence.
> 
> Fic covers Stacie’s first year at university, 1938-39.
> 
> Title from _Meditations_ by Marcus Aurelius, Book 9:7 (tr. Maxwell Staniforth) “Erase fancy; curb impulse; quench desire; let sovereign reason have the mastery.” 
> 
> Chapter titles are from popular songs of the period.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> History repeats itself... almost.

OXFORD – Michaelmas Term 1938

She was not looking where she was going as she quitted the Cathedral’s morning service and entered the quadrangle of Christ Church college; she collided heavily with a rapidly moving form, and was sent sprawling. She cried out as the impact jarred her back.

“Well, history repeating itself,” said a man’s mocking voice from somewhere above her. “May I assist you to rise?” A shapely hand was extended, grasped hers, and helped her to her feet. “A scholar, I see. I do apologise for my graceless nephew. You are unhurt, I hope?”

Stacie straightened slowly and cautiously. “No. Thank-you, sir.”

She was facing a fair-haired, faultlessly tailored gentleman in academic dress, who was much her height. Before either could make comment, they were joined by a younger, taller man, who nevertheless looked very like the elder. “My name’s Wimsey; my nephew Saint-George.”

Stacie found herself smiling. “Lord Saint-George’s reputation for recklessness goes before him.”

The young man coloured. “I do apologise. I hope I didn’t hurt you? This quad is cursed! I feel I ought to be picking up your meringues.”

“Meringues?” asked Stacie, puzzled, and feeling obscurely as if she were being mocked.

Viscount Saint-George felt he should explain. “I apologise. Family history. I barged into my aunt in this selfsame place three years ago – sent her shopping flying.”

She was not ignorant of the family represented by the two men; indeed, the elder was notorious as a detective, with details of his cases reaching even the rarefied levels of _The Times_ , the only newspaper Stacie read. “My name is Benson,” she said.

They all three made small bows of acknowledgment. A bell tolled the half-hour, reminding Stacie of her appointments. “Forgive me, I should go. Good afternoon.”

They said farewell courteously, and the two men watched her tall figure retreating rapidly, gown tugged by the wind.

“The Dean and Chapter should place a warning sign for pedestrians,” Wimsey commented caustically.

“Beware Idiots?” his nephew suggested, with a grin. “Look Both Ways?”

“I don’t know why we allowed you to tag along, anyway. We should have left you in London.”

They were joined presently by a dark-haired woman in an MA gown and hood, who tucked her hand in Wimsey’s arm. “Well, my dear,” she said. “I thought you wanted to talk to the Master?”

“He’s busy: I had a quick word after the voluntary. Do you want to go alone to Shrewsbury? We can push off and feed elsewhere if you’d rather.”

“Of course not. I have _strict_ instructions from the Dean to bring you both along.”

Lord Saint-George offered his own arm: his aunt smiled wryly, and they walked along, three abreast, towards Shrewsbury College.

Had Stacie been less conscious of needing to take care of her back, she might have run past an astonished Padgett in the porter’s lodge. As it was she walked, quickly, but with the smooth step she had cultivated since her recovery from the accident which had laid her up for months. She mounted the stairs to her room, like a salmon against the stream of descending students. She tossed her scarf and gloves on the bed with a wry inward smile as she wondered what Matron would say if she could see such disregard for tidiness. She smoothed her hair, and made her way to Hall.

“Stacie!” said a slight, fair-haired girl in a smart green frock and short gown. “Come and sit by me. Where were you this morning?”

Stacie stood by the indicated chair, and glanced up the high table: the senior members had not yet filed into the room. “I went to morning service at Christchurch. The choir sang the Byrd five-part mass and a Weelkes motet, which were just beautiful.” She could not help a note of yearning enter her voice, since she wished she could sing such music. The Shrewsbury chapel was not yet sufficiently endowed with a music fund for a choir.

“You do well enough with the Bach Choir,” Beth replied, sympathetically.

“You’re right, Beth – I wouldn’t have time.”

The deafening clangour in the hall ceased abruptly as the side door opened and the dons entered with their guests.

A brief grace was spoken, then a great scraping of chairs on the wood floor as the students sat down at their tables. Beth turned to look at her friend, who had coloured on seeing certain of the guests. “Goodness! Isn’t that Lord Peter Wimsey?” she said, nudging Stacie’s shoulder discreetly. She made no comment about the incredibly handsome young man sitting amiably beside Miss Pyke, for she had learned that Stacie disapproved of such remarks. Not that she was exactly a prig, Beth thought charitably. No-one could be who spent her holidays with an aunt and uncle who had five sons.

Stacie sometimes thought that she and Beth were friends because of being opposites, rather than alike. Compared to her sheltered upbringing, Beth had led a much freer, more unrestricted life, and often made remarks that had surprised her friend. Their one common interest was music, both being ornaments of the Bach Choir, which they both loved. She made a remark about Harris’ _Praise the Lord_ , which was to be performed for the first time later that term, to which Beth responded amiably.

At the high table, the Wimseys had been greeted like old friends, though the painful matter of Annie Wilson had naturally not been mentioned aloud. There had been two additions to the Senior Common Room since that time, and one departure: Miss Chilperic was now Mrs Peppercorn. The visitors had been introduced to the new mathematics tutor, Miss Sutherland, and the assistant history tutor, Miss Vanning, and had then each been annexed: Harriet by Miss Lydgate and the Dean; Lord Peter by Miss Hillyard; and Saint-George by Miss Pyke.

Lord Saint-George, who had graduated only two years previously, showed little diffidence in speaking to any of the dons, and was entertaining Miss Pyke and Miss Edwards with an account of his various mishaps in motor cars.

“I read about Rosamund Harvill in the papers,” said Miss Martin. “I had no idea she was a friend of yours.”

“Hardly a friend,” Harriet replied ruefully, “though her death did upset me. I think it was because one actually knew her that it was such a shock. The Wilvercombe case was distressing and beastly, but there was no... personal feeling. The same with Mr Noakes at Tallboys. But it seemed different to have spoken to her, and felt in some way slightly responsible.”

The Dean nodded thoughtfully. “How’s Bredon? And why the summer-time strange name?”

Harriet laughed and explained.

It had been interesting to test her own reactions to seeing him again. Both she and Wimsey had been scrupulously polite, and had conversed only of academic matters. She was glad to find that the coruscating jealousy that had once possessed her had faded; she could look at him and not feel so strongly that it hurt. She had thanked him gravely for his introduction to the library in Florence that she had been able to use; he congratulated her on the resulting paper. It occurred to her to wonder how he had time to keep up with journal reading.

Lord Peter was released from Miss Hillyard’s conversation as she turned to her other neighbour politely. As he glanced up, he found his eyes met his wife’s; she looked a little anxious; he smiled, and her face relaxed. It was these small moments he found increasingly precious. His glance fell on the student tables, having been too occupied previously to take stock of Shrewsbury’s present crop. Almost immediately he recognised the tall scholar they had met earlier that day: she sat very upright, without slouching, looking very dignified. He wondered whether Harriet had looked like that at eighteen: eager, confident.

Stacie was relieved when the meal was over, and the dons departed. She and Beth filed out of Hall, intending to return to their rooms, when they were swept upon by the brisk conversation of the Dean – who was hard to resist.

“Miss Benson, Miss Stephenson, good. Come along for tea. I want you to meet our guests.” She collected another few students, and bustled them along to the Senior Common Room.

Beth went willingly, not at all averse to conversing with the Apollo in flannel, but Stacie did not, and wished she could avoid all mention of the morning.

Lady Peter Wimsey smiled a little to see her nephew immediately seized upon by the prettiest girl in the room, though she had done it very subtly. Harriet sipped her tea, and stood gratefully when Miss Martin brought along another of the students.

“Now, this is Miss Benson. I ought perhaps to have introduced her to Lord Peter, since she has been recently in Austria. Though she’s a classics, rather than a history, scholar.”

Harriet smiled at Miss Benson. “Do you want to talk about Austria?” she asked.

Stacie was grateful she was speaking to one person who had not seen her humiliating herself earlier. “I was at an English school in Austria – Tirol – until recently,” Stacie explained. “After the Anschluss, the school was advised to move out of Austria. Some of our pupils were in trouble with the Gestapo, and had to flee to Switzerland, though I think most of them are safe in Guernsey now.”

Harriet raised her eyebrows. “If all one reads is true, I’m surprised they escaped.”

“It was dreadfully worrying – the rest of us were sent back to England without much fuss, and it was only afterwards one heard how bad it had been. Oxford seems so peaceful in comparison.”

They spoke for a few minutes, Harriet rather amused by the girl’s very adult air, very unlike her own at Miss Benson’s age, and decided that this was due to her very correct English and decidedly Oxford accent. She noticed Jerry hiding his boredom – apparently successfully – from his interlocutor, and decided that it would do him good to talk to the correct Miss Benson.

“Come and meet my husband’s nephew,” she said to Stacie, and was surprised to see a wave of colour sweep over the girl’s face. What on earth had happened? “Miss Benson – have you met Lord Saint-George before?”

Stacie confessed the collision, and was not sure whether to be relieved or affronted when Lady Peter laughed aloud. “I’m so sorry, Miss Benson, but my first meeting with Jerry was exactly the same. He didn’t bowl me to the ground, at least, but sent my cakes flying everywhere.”

“Oh! So that’s what he meant by the meringues!” Stacie exclaimed, suddenly enlightened. She grinned, no longer feeling as though she had made a fool of herself.

Harriet drew Stacie with her. “I hope,” she said, mock-sternly, “ you’ve apologised to Miss Benson.”

Beth turned her head, surprised: Stacie had not mentioned this to her. Lord Saint-George breathed an inaudible sigh of relief. “I apologised humbly, penitently and with a contrite heart,” he said. “It will teach me not to go anywhere near that stony labyrinth again.” He did not go down on his knees, somehow aware that Miss Benson would not appreciate the gesture. “I say – had we met before this morning? You said I had a reputation for recklessness.”

“My father was professor of Greek at Christ Church until four years ago. Your name was occasionally mentioned at home,” Stacie explained.

“Was he not an authority on Aeschylus? I seem to remember his book.”

Stacie was surprised, and rather touched, though she tried not to show it: somehow she had not expected this dilettante gentleman to have studied with any diligence. And he had said “was”, too, so presumably had heard of Professor Benson’s death. “Yes,” she replied. “I’m unsure whether I ever loathed Classics as a child, but by the time I was sent to school I had become reconciled by constant exposure.”

“I considered Latin a barbarous form of torture at my prep, until I discovered Munster’s _Cosmographia Universalis_. Finding it led to one of the most glorious nights I ever spent as a boy.” He grinned reminiscently.

Seeing encouraging looks on the faces of his aunt and Miss Benson, he elaborated, telling the story of Mr Wilberforce Pope and the treasure at Yelsall Manor, which had endowed a hospital. Harriet was amused to hear one of her husband’s cases that he had never previously mentioned and Stacie was strongly reminded of some of the pranks played by the Middles at the Chalet School.

“I wish I had seen it,” Harriet said, smiling. “I might make a short story out of it – that’s if you don’t mind, Jerry.”

“It would give me exceeding pleasure to be immortalised in print.”

Beth, who had felt rather left out of this amiable conversation, looked pointedly at her watch, saying, “Stacie, did you not have a meeting at three o’clock?”

“Oh gosh! Thanks for reminding me. I’m so sorry – please excuse me.” She hastily made her excuses to the Dean, who told her to run along, even if it was a standing joke in the SCR that Miss Benson never ran anywhere.

Harriet took pity on her nephew. “Jerry, you wanted to visit your old haunts – Peter and I will meet you at Mercury in, say, an hour’s time?”

“Thanks,” he said, gratefully.

Lord Saint-George made polite good-byes to the SCR, thanking them for their hospitality. He bounded down the stairs, escaping, and ran into New Quad, his gown and hood streaming behind him. It wasn’t that he disliked young women – in fact at times quite the reverse – but today had not been such a time: he had not particularly enjoyed Miss Stephenson’s company.

He walked rapidly down the street, hands in pockets spoiling the line of his suit, then slowed, looking around him more curiously. Grey stone, gowned figures, bicycles, a few motor-cars: nothing seemed to have changed since he was last up.

Harriet found herself talking to Miss Stephenson, and discovered, disconcertingly, that she was thinking like a don. In fact, she wondered whether her youthful friendship with Mary Stokes had appeared to Miss Lydgate like this: one apparently deep thinker, speaking knowledgeably about art and music, and one quieter, though more intelligent young woman. Miss Stephenson was obviously very pretty, stamped with the indefinable something that spoke of wealth, and certainly intelligent: why, then, did Harriet feel there was something crucial lacking for true scholarship? Too self-absorbed or uninterested? Miss Benson, however – surely nothing would come between her and the truth.

Stacie beguiled her walk to New College by thinking about school, which she had not done since going up to Oxford. She had been uncertain whether she had achieved the necessary standard, despite her hard work in the last few terms, when she was able to do so, and had had a few anxious months before she had been accepted, and notified of her scholarship. That had been a very proud day: she had written to Mademoiselle Lachenais, thanking her for her help, and received in return a letter in which congratulations and exhortation to work hard were equally mixed.

It was mid-afternoon when the Wimseys departed Shrewsbury, amid a flurry of good wishes from both dons and guests. Both liked Saint-George very much, but they found it much pleasanter to saunter idly together, enjoying each other’s company. They found the viscount watching Mercury’s carp, frowning abstractedly – though his expression cleared when he caught sight of his uncle and aunt.

“What ho,” he said, “where is the music?”

His uncle cocked a knowledgeable eyebrow. “What, alone and palely loitering?”

Saint-George grinned, ruefully. “What did you expect? Miracles?”

“You’ve been astonishingly converted to a life of piety by a sublime vision?”

The viscount did not answer, and they made their way to where the car had been garaged. Harriet and Lord Peter spoke idly from time to time as he drove back to London through the gathering dusk. Saint-George mused, unwontedly silent, behind his aunt, about his life and plans. Since coming down from Oxford (and considerably surprising his parents by taking a good degree), he had found himself aimless, moving between Town and Norfolk. At Denver, his father rarely involved him in the running of the estates, and he disliked his mother. Flying lessons did not help, though he enjoyed them.

It was not something that he could readily talk to his uncle about, and of course not to Harriet, but seeing their relationship had made him want something similar. Harriet had been something outside his experience, an intelligent, detached woman who had not been impressed by his looks or charm, but had been ready to give an impartial friendship. He now felt more able to talk to her than to his own mother.

Saint-George sighed, wondering what advice she might give in his current predicament – to find a job, probably. After all, it was what she had had to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve taken the liberty of assuming Viscount St George read Classics, since Sayers doesn’t, to my recollection, actually say anywhere in _Gaudy Night_ what his chosen subject is. The treasure of Yelsall Manor is featured in the short story _The Learned Adventure of the Dragon’s Head_.


	2. One Day When We Were Young

Stacie was not allowed to forget the entrance of the Wimseys into her life, for Beth mentioned the visit several times. A week later, however, she was considerably surprised to receive a letter postmarked from London, which proved to contain a brief note from Lady Peter. In it she apologised for what she called impertinence, but could Miss Benson put Lord Peter in touch with her former headmistress, or anyone else who had been involved in an administrative capacity with the Chalet School in Austria?

 _The Foreign Office would appreciate any information about the political situation there_ , the letter ended.

Stacie sat for some time considering this request. She had gained the impression from Lady Peter that her husband occasionally did work for the Foreign Office, and so the letter was not so inexplicable – nor indeed unreasonable. She did wonder whether or not to write to Lord Peter separately, then decided against it.

She opened up her writing case, filled her pen, and began to write, addressing her letter to Dr. Russell. He, she thought, would be much more likely to have useful information than his wife – much though she liked and respected _Madame_ , as the girls still called her. She signed off her letter affectionately, addressed the envelope to the house in Guernsey which the Russells had taken, and searched for a stamp.

The news had not been reassuring lately, despite the recent Munich Agreement. The Red Army was fighting in the Far East, and German and Soviet troops were moving into Eastern Europe; Czechoslovakia had been disgracefully sold. Stacie shivered suddenly, aware that peace was very fragile, and that war was no longer a matter of men fighting with spears and swords, as one read in the _Iliad_ , or Arrian’s _Anabasis of Alexander_ , but something much less heroic. She wondered how long Mr Chamberlain could keep war from England’s shores, and what would happen if he could not. Despite a strong faith, that had grown over the months of her slow recovery from injury, she could not believe that God would save them: it was man that sold his fellow men, killed them in their thousands, all in the name of autonomy and justice, of _Lebensraum_ , or in the conviction that Communism could save the downtrodden and the oppressed.

At this point in her reflections, having thoroughly depressed herself, Stacie rose to her feet to post her letter.

On her way back from the lodge, she met Beth, who had been to a meeting of the Dickens Society at Magdalen College. “Stacie! Just the person I wanted to see!”

Stacie smiled. “Good – what’s toward?”

“I’ve had a letter from the Aged Brother, he’s coming up to Oxford at the weekend and proposes to take me to tea somewhere – like to come? He wrote that I might bring someone.”

“I’d love to – thank-you very much. Is he coming just to see you?”

Beth gave a mock-pout. “And why not?” She smiled wryly. “Oxford is _en route_ to Birmingham.”

“Oh, I _see_ ,” Stacie replied, teasing. "What’s he like? Tell me about him.”

Beth grinned. “You’ll see. Anyway, he sent a box of chocs – to keep me going through any essay I might be inflicted with – he was at Oriel in the dark ages.”

“How is he so much older than you?” They had mounted the stairs and entered into Beth’s room.

“Sit down, Stacie. I’ll make some cocoa.” Beth set the kettle to boil while Stacie took off her coat and gown. “He’s really my half-brother,” she explained. “But since Dad died he’s been like a father to me.”

“It must have been comforting for you both to have each other,” Stacie replied seriously.

“Very comforting. Here, have a choc.” Beth held out the vast tray in offering: Stacie took several minutes to choose from the infinite variety presented therein, and was moved to offer that she thought Beth’s half-brother a jolly good sort.

The two comforted themselves with cocoa against the chilly evening, before Stacie left to change her dress before dinner. They sat with Barbara Lyvedon, who was also musical, though she was reading history: she was friendly enough when one managed to breach her rather chilly exterior.

After dinner, Stacie, who took an organised approach to her work so that she was spared the essay crises which afflicted her friends (much to their annoyance and admiration), made her way to the library in Tudor to put in some work on Greek history. Not having studied much Greek at school, though her father had given her a good grounding, she was at something of a disadvantage, compared to most of the men. However, she had arranged some extra coaching with Dr Medmenham, with Miss Pyke’s blessing, and was remembering more and more each day. She was soon absorbed.

The narrow confines of boarding school had not really prepared Stacie for the freedom of university, so that she was very glad that she had found Beth for a friend: Beth knew many people, and was gregarious and chatty, so that the two had found themselves with a social life that their shyer contemporaries envied. So although Stacie worked hard, enjoying her studies, she always found time to go to meetings and parties, and never missed a choir rehearsal.

It was almost ten o’clock when Stacie put away Thucydides, realising that her back was aching, and returned to her room.

On Friday, Stacie received two letters, one postmarked from Guernsey: she opened it eagerly, recognising Mrs Russell’s handwriting on the envelope, and was surprised when the letter inside proved to be typewritten, signed with the flourishing and illegible scribble that was Dr Russell’s signature. In it he thanked Stacie for her letter, hoped she was feeling well, studying hard and enjoying Oxford; then added that he had contacted this Lord Peter Wimsey: and had found him remarkably intelligent. He did not ask in so many words, how on earth did she know him? but the question was there, nevertheless.

Stacie smiled to herself as she read the letter. It was pleasant to confound expectations occasionally. The other letter was postmarked from London, and was addressed in a neat yet almost illegible hand: it was surprising that it had come to her, though her name was written clearly enough. She sat down at her desk and opened the letter.

She stared, utterly astonished, glad that she had sat down.

 _Dear Miss Benson_ , the letter began. _It isn’t, perhaps, the done thing to write to a woman without her permission, but I hope you’ll forgive me the impertinence – I mean no offence._

She read the letter for a second, and then a third time. By this time her surprise had faded, and was able to enjoy the writer’s style, which was entertaining and allusive. It would not normally have occurred to her to seek his friendship, but she decided that she liked the man revealed by the letter, and determined that she would respond in kind.

Not the world’s most fluent correspondent, as Stacie herself would have admitted, her epistles tended to err on the dry and factual side. However, with the example in front of her, she wrote rapidly and without thinking.

Stacie stamped and sealed her letter, and left it at the porter’s lodge to be collected along with the rest of the post. She wondered what Madame would be thinking, could she have seen her erstwhile pupil. Stacie had never thought of herself as a particular trailblazer, since pupils from the Chalet School had gone on to university before her – Miss Carrick, in particular, for whom Stacie had a whole-hearted admiration – but she was the first to study at Oxford.

She went in to lunch, meeting Barbara, who had just had a tutorial with Miss Hillyard, and was not cheerful.

On Saturday afternoon, after spending a couple of hours with Tacitus, and Caesar’s _Gallic Wars_ , Stacie returned to her room to leave her books and to change for tea. The little Beth had confided about her half-brother had been intriguing, so that Stacie was eager to finally meet him. It was a damp and blustery day, so she sacrificed fashion for practicality, dressing in warm clothes and thick shoes. Then she glanced at her reflection in the mirror, grimaced horribly, and prepared to descend to the common-room. Beth had been talking eagerly, but she jumped up to introduce her friend.

Stacie was unsure what she had been expecting, but Mr. Stephenson was not it. He looked nothing like Beth, being tall, dark-eyed and prematurely silver-haired, though she guessed he was only about thirty. He looked very serious, though as Beth presented them to each other, he smiled – which altered his expression considerably. Stacie smiled in return, and said “How d’you do?” politely.

In a few moments, Beth had put on her coat and hat, and they were walking out through the quad into town.

“How do you like Oxford, Miss Benson?” he asked. “Beth told me that you’re reading Classics.”

Stacie gave her standard reply (she had told no-one that she adored university life, nor that she felt as though she had found her milieu); with Beth’s chat they passed the walk easily to the hotel which Mr. Stephenson proposed to patronise. He had fond memories of his own three years at Oxford, and was very funny about the pranks played by hearty undergraduates, and the pleasures of shivering on the river bank every morning at five o’clock. Beth grimaced at the thought of such pre-dawn awakening, and commented that she hated to rise at eight, let alone any earlier.

It was a sumptuous meal with delicately scented Ceylon tea, sandwiches and plates of cakes. Stacie avoided the cream cakes, having had enough of these in Austria, though she enjoyed the rich plum cake. She listened to Beth chatting with her half-brother, liking the rapport they seemed to have, and felt a little wistful that she had no close family: though she had become closer to her aunt and eldest cousin, Ned, in the past few years.

“So when is this concert of yours?” Mr Stephenson asked. “I might make the trip.”

“November the twenty-ninth,” said Beth.

“Twenty-seventh,” Stacie corrected.

He reached into his coat and pulled out a slim notebook, leafing through the pages thoughtfully. “I’ve a meeting in Edgbaston on the following morning, but I could certainly come up for the concert. I like Mozart.”

“We’re really enjoying the _Requiem_ ,” Stacie commented, including Beth in her glance. “It seems almost appropriate at this time.”

Stephenson glanced at her with comprehension. “A forewarning, you mean?” She nodded. “I wonder how many people in the audience will see it as that.”

“A forewarning of what?” Beth asked.

“War, of course,” he replied, surprised that she had not made the obvious connection.

Beth blushed. “Sorry. That was rather fatuous of me.”

“Well, I wasn’t going to say so...” her brother replied, teasingly. “More tea, either of you?”

Stacie asked for another cup of tea, while Beth buried her embarrassment in another éclair, and made her companions laugh to see whipped cream liberally decorating her cheeks as a result.

It was dark, and the rain beating down in blustering squalls when they emerged from the hotel. They walked rapidly through the streets, sheltering under Stephenson’s black bat umbrella, holding onto their hats. He kissed his sister an affectionate farewell, and shook Stacie’s hand as they parted at the gate.

LONDON

Lady Peter Wimsey, seated at her desk attempting to correct the proofs of her latest novel (considerably delayed due to the trials of motherhood), was trying to ignore her son’s energetic stumbling about the room. Her feet were curled up on her chair, which was fortunate, since Bredon suddenly charged towards her with his wheeled horse, and was brought up abruptly by the chair’s legs. Harriet thanked the Dowager’s common sense that the chair was old and battered and not a Hepplewhite or any other eighteenth century antique. Guilt was tugging at her: for failing to play with Bredon; and for procrastinating about the proofs.

Proofs and son alike were discarded a few minutes later, when voices sounded hurriedly.

“I will see whether her ladyship is at home,” came the protesting tones of Meredith, the Wimseys’ very correct butler.

“I’ll announce myself, Meredith,” said a light, rapid voice; the door swung open and Viscount Saint-George irrupted into the room.

With a sigh, Harriet put down the pages. “Hello, Jerry. Sit down.”

He grinned at her, and swooped upon his young cousin, catching him in sure hands and flying him around the room making aeroplane noises, much to Bredon’s delight. Harriet could not help smiling in response.

It took some time (and rather a large quantity of thickly buttered muffins – Harriet was irresistibly reminded of _The Importance of Being Earnest_ ) before Saint-George could be persuaded to calm down and talk sensibly. She had always taken for granted her nephew’s normal taste in young women (pretty, stupid and gold-digging), so it was something of a surprise to hear him talking about someone entirely different. Evidently something about Miss Benson had caught his fancy: Harriet distinctly remembered him using the disdainful phrase ‘nice girls, no doubt, but too grubby’ about Shrewsbury’s women students only a few years previously. Maybe it was the girl’s upright posture or considered speech. Or maybe he was growing up.

“I know it was a cheek to write to her, but she wrote back in reply,” he said, swallowing his last mouthful of tea. “She’s clever. I like her.” He sounded a little bewildered by that last admission.

“I daresay she is,” Harriet replied, surprised. From the little she had gathered from Jerry’s remarks and her husband’s more trenchant assessment, he was more accustomed to debutantes who, if they had intelligence, hid it for fear of being thought ineligible, or else the kind of good time girl who did not expect marriage.

“What’s your advice, Aunt Harriet?”

Goodness, she thought, wondering what to say. “Well, keep writing. It might be good for you to be friends. I’m sure she thinks about more than the colour of her fingernails or the set of her latest hat,” she added tartly, abruptly remembering the young woman she’d glimpsed in the hospital during her early acquaintance with the viscount. He had the grace to look ashamed of himself, so she added more kindly, “Why do you go about with these girls for whom you don’t give twopence? Because everyone else does? You should know that that’s the rankest sort of dishonesty, both to yourself and to the girl in question.”

“Yes, I suppose so, but they are awfully decorative.”

Only the almost shamefaced look on his expressive countenance stopped her losing her temper with him. “Women are people, Gerald – not mere ornaments,” she said, wearily. “And just because you have all the advantages, you shouldn’t use them as weapons.” He had them all: youth, good looks, intelligence, a privileged position.

“They honestly don’t seem like advantages, much of the time,” he acknowledged. “But I take your point.” Absentmindedly he pushed his fingers through his hair, musing over Harriet’s words.

His attention was caught by his cousin, who had tired of playing alone, and had decided that Uncle Jerry’s ankles would act as a good obstacle course. Saint-George smiled, distracted. “Shall I take Bredon away for a while, and let you get on?” he asked.

“That would be very kind to us both,” Harriet replied, thankfully.

He was touched by his aunt’s look of gratitude. He gathered Bredon up and set him on his shoulder, then pranced downstairs, where they played at elephants for a while.

Left alone, Harriet worked quickly and accurately, marking the proofs with quick comments and corrections, though she spent a few moments wondering what sort of state her son would be getting into. When she was done, she bundled up the papers into a large envelope, and sat for a while pondering Jerry’s problems. Rather reprehensibly, she felt a great curiosity to know what Miss Benson had written in reply to Saint-George’s letter: she had seemed a sensible young woman, not likely to fall for the viscount’s considerable charm.

She glanced at the clock and made her way downstairs to join her offspring.

Saint-George took his leave later, some time after Lord Peter had returned home. As far as Harriet was aware he had made no attempt to ask his uncle for opinion or advice. She wondered whether or not to mention it to Peter; then was distracted by his questions about her writing, and the moment was gone. The young man himself walked back to the family house in Mount Street, his cheerful feeling fading with every step. He had come out without an umbrella, nor even a hat, and the rain flattened his pale hair against his skull and dripped icily down his neck. The dreary weather matched his mood.

OXFORD

Stacie was not by nature particularly good at showing sympathy or giving comfort, but hearing the muffled sobs coming from the bathroom on Saturday evening made her stop short and wait. She sat quietly for some time, until the door of one of the cubicles opened, and Barbara Lyvedon emerged, the marks of tear-stains still plain on her face. She was surprised: Barbara always seemed so quiet and self-possessed. “Can I help?” she asked, seeing that something was obviously wrong.

Barbara was tempted to snap at her, but she liked Stacie, and bit off her harsh words. “I don’t know.”

“Come along to my room – I’ll make some tea, or cocoa – you can dry your hair and tell me what’s wrong,” Stacie said.

A little to her surprise, Barbara followed her, and sat beside the gas fire rubbing dry her dark hair with a towel and looking around her hostess’ room with interest. While Stacie was making cocoa, Barbara inspected the photographs on one of the shelves, and asked who all the people were.

“School friends, mostly,” Stacie said, then pointed out friends from the Chalet School. Barbara seemed interested, so she explained further, even managing to make her friend laugh.

Barbara sighed. “I wish _I’d_ gone to school. I don’t wish to belittle my governess, for I did like her, and she was an intelligent woman. But my parents are the old-fashioned sort. I love them dearly but they do not understand why I wanted to come to Oxford to study. And it isn’t as if my mother is silly or stupid – far from it. But she seems to think that it’s unwomanly to be a student. I had to fight so hard to get a place here, and I have to read their letters and read again and again how disappointed they are in me.”

Stacie was silent for a few moments while Barbara composed herself. She herself had never considered not going up to university – her parents had been intellectual, and had passed on the same respect for learning to their only child – so she was unsure how to answer. “I admire you immensely for having had the courage to come,” she said slowly. “It must be uncomfortable to feel that they don’t support your decision.”

Barbara smiled wryly. “They were perfectly _sweet_ about it; make me a good allowance. But they treat Oxford as though it’s a whim that I will soon regret. As though I’m wasting my time here before I marry.”

Stacie made the cocoa thoughtfully, and passed a cup to her friend, who thanked her. “Do you _want_ to marry?” she asked, bluntly.

“I don’t know. It’s certainly what my mother thinks should be my ultimate destiny,” Barbara added dryly.

Stacie smiled. “I spent most of my schooldays with Continental girls – most of whom assumed that one would marry, and sooner rather than later.” She considered. “Perhaps you could try writing so enthusiastically about college that they see how you enjoy it. Or offer to spend the vac in the way they want you to. Dances, theatre, parties – that sort of thing – as long as they stop treating Oxford as a passing fancy of yours.”

“I could put it to Mother, I suppose,” Barbara replied, more cheerfully, sipping her cocoa. “Thank-you.”

Stacie smiled. “I hope it works. Will you be in London at Christmas?”

They talked for a while about their respective plans: Barbara expected that she would spend most of the vacation at her family’s home in Hertfordshire, and in London; Stacie would be returning to Taverton, to her aunt and uncle.

It was late when Barbara, glancing at her watch, exclaimed that she should leave, and apologised for keeping Stacie from her bed. They said goodnight, and Barbara darted down the corridor to her own, chilly, room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Barbara is here imagined as daughter and only child of Anthony and Valerie Lyvedon, whose story is told in Dornford Yates’ books _Anthony Lyvedon_ and _Valerie French_ , although Yates never mentioned in subsequent books whether they ever had children.


	3. Sing For Your Supper

It was a few days later that Beth, walking back to Shrewsbury after the Bach Choir rehearsal, said, “Stacie, would you like to stay for part of the holiday with us? Pat usually invites a houseful of guests, and you’d be very welcome. Of course you want to stay with your family, but perhaps you could come to us before we return to Oxford?”

“I’d like that, Beth,” Stacie replied, pleased. “But I’d need to talk to my aunt, first. She probably wouldn’t mind, though.”

“Of course. We have acres of space – the house is really too big for us.”

Stacie wrote to her aunt that evening, and received a reply a few days later stating that of course Stacie might stay with her friend. She and the family were looking forward to seeing her at Christmas, and were enjoying her letters.

The next two weeks brought three letters from Lord Saint-George; Stacie replied, though she was somewhat surprised by the frequency of his correspondence. He had been very entertaining about what was going on in London, and admitting his passion for flying. She had never been in an aeroplane, and confessed this: he had written that it was time she tried.

Barbara, too, seemed a little happier, having written to her parents all the enthusiasm and interest in her studies she was feeling, and having received replies (particularly from her father) which seemed to indicate that they were beginning to be reconciled to her student life. It had helped, Barbara confessed to Stacie, that she had agreed to the parties and dances that her mother had planned, even to the extent of promising to go with her parents to Sir Andrew and Lady Plague’s dance on New Year’s Eve – Sir Andrew was terrifying, though his wife, Barbara’s great-aunt and godmother, was certainly not.

*

Dr. Medmenham lived out of college, and Stacie enjoyed her walks to and from his house, which was on a street close to the Botanical Gardens. He had known her parents, but rarely spoke about either, except once mentioning that she was very like her mother. On first impression, he looked rather vulpine, even to the fox-red hair and eyes to match, but he was quiet and kind: and a very good coach. He knew exactly how to talk to each of his students, who were not all like Stacie. She knew a few of them, through meeting in hallways. Her Greek was definitely coming along under his tutelage, so that Stacie was starting to prefer it to Latin. She liked the simple abstract skill of translation and interpretation that was being developed by Dr. Medmenham, as well as the more archaeological aspects of the subject in which Miss Pyke was particularly interested.

Stacie had not once been given to self-scrutiny, but the long months spent recuperating had developed this tendency. She wondered what she would have done had her parents both been alive. Of course, she would never have been sent to school, and would have missed a great deal thereby. She looked back over the period of just four years, and could see how she had changed. Stacie had seen that some of her parents’ training had been good – she thanked them in her heart for the love of learning and reading that they had inspired in her – but some of it had not, and it had taken time spent in the midst of a real family to learn how to make allowances, and to be happy for other people. She would never be gregarious, like Joey Bettany – no, now Maynard – but at least she could talk to others more readily and make real friends.

She still did not really understand her aunt and cousins, nor did they entirely understand her; she was occasionally aware of being more a guest than a family member when in Taverton. Still, at least she was no longer unwelcome, and the difference was pleasant to feel.

“Miss Benson?” A voice interrupted her reflections; she looked around, startled.

“Hullo, Mr. Kent,” she responded, pleased and smiling.

Charles Kent – a tall, dark, serious-looking young man – was in his first year, too, reading Classics at Oriel: they met often fortuitously at Dr Medmenham’s house, or nearby it, and had discovered that they liked each other. He smiled in return.

“I’m sorry – you were evidently deep in thought,” he said, wryly. “You dropped your gloves in the hall.”

Stacie surveyed her bare hands absently, having not noticed how cold her fingers were growing. “I hadn’t noticed I’d left them behind,” she acknowledged. “Thank-you very much.”

Kent handed them to her, and grinned to himself as she dropped them into her pocket. “You might like to put them on,” he added. “Only a suggestion.”

She blushed, and pulled her gloves on, as though they, and not she, had been at fault. “Thank-you again. Wits wandering.” She pulled herself together, asking, “Are you going on to Dr Medmenham’s house?”

He shook his head. “I had arranged to meet Mike Fischer this morning, but I’ve been told he’s cosseting a cold in his rooms. So I’m at a bit of a loose end.” He paused, diffidently. “Do you have plans?”

“I had intended to go to the Bodley Library – Miss Pyke mentioned a book in her tutorial yesterday which sounded interesting.”

“May I walk you there?”

“Thank-you,” she replied, with as much self-possession as she could summon. “I’d like that.”

They were unwontedly silent as they walked, both feeling suddenly shy, until they caught each other’s swift glance, and smiled.

They started talking, about Greek history at first, branching out into mathematics from a mention of Euclid, and engineering from Archimedes. By the time they arrived at Bodley, they were both arguing with vim and point, and thoroughly enjoying themselves. It was some time before Stacie recollected her purpose, and bade farewell to Mr. Kent before entering into the library.

She found the references that Miss Pyke had mentioned, and made notes, becoming interested enough to forget time passing. She was roused hours later by a nagging emptiness, looked at her watch, and discovered that it was after five o’clock.

Stacie tidied away her books and notebook, put on her coat and gown, and made her way back to Shrewsbury. She had little time to reflect, though she was conscious of feeling happy, for she and Beth went out after Hall for the last rehearsal before the concert – which was to take place on Sunday. After the rehearsal, Beth left no time for solitude, for she spoke of the music, and then of her half-brother, who was very much looking forward to the event.

“And we’ll meet up with Patrick afterwards, before he sets off for London,” Beth added eagerly.

“I almost envy the closeness of your relationship with your brother,” Stacie said, surprising her friend. “Cousins aren’t the same – particularly when they’re perfectly certain one’s a strange creature rather than a rational being.”

“Well, I’m not so sure Pat thinks of _me_ as a rational being,” Beth joked, “but yes, he’s a dear, mostly.”

Beth and Stacie had been assiduously selling tickets to their fellow-students for the choir’s concert. There was a good turn-out on the evening, including Barbara, who had faithfully promised her friends to tell them where all the wrong notes had been. Beth did not expect to see her half-brother before the concert, but they had arranged to meet afterwards (she and Stacie had obtained permission for late leave that evening).

As they filed into place, the hall was hot, despite the chill outside: there were few seats left empty. Then the conductor emerged onto the platform with the four soloists.

Stacie wrote afterwards: “ _I enjoyed singing the works, and listening to the soloists during rehearsals, but somehow, tonight, it all meant far more than simply notes and words. There was such quiet after the first few notes from the orchestra, that our voices sounded clearly, and one felt as though the audience was really listening. I think it made us sing and play with more feeling. I don’t know enough about music to be able to disentangle why, for words and music separately don’t have the same effect. It’s enough to say that I was profoundly moved by great music._ ”

After the concert, Beth and Stacie emerged from the hall in search of their friends. They collected Barbara (who had shaken her head and declined to comment when Beth asked about the wrong bits) and Mr Stephenson. He was introduced to Barbara, and made admiring comments about the singing and the acoustics of the hall.

Beth was rather over-excited, and talked so much that there was hardly a chance for anyone else to speak; though her two friends were not annoyed by her volubility. It was her brother who said kindly, at length, “Do stow it, Beth. Have some cake.”

They were cosily ensconced in a private room at one of Oxford’s better hotels, and were relaxing with coffee and cakes. While Beth was briefly silent, her mouth stuffed with strawberry tart, Mr Stephenson made conversation with his sister’s friends. He made passing mention of his business: though he did not give any details of what was made in the three factories in Coventry, Birmingham and London. Stacie caught an odd look on Beth’s face as her brother spoke, and wondered why. Then Beth spoke of London, and the Christmas holidays, asking Barbara to call when she was in Town.

After this pleasant evening, Stacie and her friends bade farewell to Mr Stephenson, and walked back to college, well wrapped against the wind. At just before eleven o’clock, they were admitted through the gate by Padgett, and separated to go to their own rooms. Stacie found her room chilly, for she had left the window open: she undressed quickly into her pyjamas, brushed her hair rapidly, and washed in cold water. She slid between cool smooth sheets beneath the down-filled plumeau which was her own addition to the college furnishings, murmured a brief prayer of thanks, and was soon asleep.

The last week of term went past quickly, filled with lectures, tutorials, coaching sessions, hours in the library and meetings of various societies. Beth excused herself from most of these outings, due to an essay crisis, but Stacie and Barbara thoroughly enjoyed themselves. Vacation plans were made, letters written and telephone calls booked.

Stacie looked back on her first term with pleasure and amazement: surely there had not been enough time available to achieve all she had?

The Lyvedons and Mr Stephenson had had the same idea, sending a car to collect their respective relatives from college at the end of term. Stacie shared a taxi to the railway station with other students, cheerfully envying her friends with their more comfortable journeys. To while away her long journey to Taverton (which required changes at Newbury and Plymouth), she had a letter and a book to read, and was soon immersed.

_So you’re planning to spend some time in London during the vacation? I’ll be home for Christmas, but shall escape as soon as possible. Would you like to meet up?_

Stacie read this again, curiously. Her first impulse was to accept the invitation, though she was determined to understand why: admitted to herself that she liked him, could appreciate his looks, but was somewhat wary: she was not the type of girl to drink and dine and dance with young men. She smiled wryly as she pictured herself doing this. Still, with Beth’s encouragement, who knew what might happen? She folded the letter, still unsure of what to write in reply, using it as a bookmark for _The Black Jacobins_ , which Barbara had lent her, and which was a thoroughly thought-provoking read.

Stacie paid little attention to her fellow travellers, who were reading their newspapers or talking quietly. There was a fair-haired man in ecclesiastical garb and a heavy overcoat who appeared to be accompanying a small girl in green coat and hat; an elderly couple who eyed Stacie’s book disapprovingly and talked inaudibly together; and three male students, who were studying at Magdalen, judging by the scarves they wore.

Snowflakes drifted past the train, slowly at first, then more quickly. The little girl jumped to her feet and peered out of the window in delight. “Look!” she said, joyfully, “it’s snowing!”

Even Stacie looked up at this excited exclamation, and glanced towards the window. It was indeed snowing, and hard; the scenery outside had diminished to a grey mist, a heavy yellow sky, and a dancing blur of whiteness which seemed to trick the eyes. Occasional bare black trees flashed past beside the tracks. Only the little girl seemed to feel unalloyed delight in the sight: the older travellers were wondering how delayed the train would be, and if their homes would be cut off. Stacie’s mind inevitably thought back to snow fights on the Sonnalpe, and smiled to herself, remembering.

The train was considerably delayed, so by the time it arrived in Plymouth, Stacie had missed her connection – there was not another service until the following morning. _First thing’s first_ , she thought, making her way to a telephone kiosk outside the station, and giving her aunt’s number to the operator. As she waited, she stamped her feet in their thick-soled boots and looked a little enviously at a stout woman swathed in silvery fox-fur who was being escorted into a shiny black car nearby. The line connected, Stacie inserted three coins, and her aunt spoke: “Stacie, dear? Where _are_ you?”

“Plymouth railway station,” she explained. “I missed the connection due to the snow. I was going to find somewhere to stay tonight and come on in the morning.”

“Oh dear. And Mr Sanderson – one of the directors of the Corah Mine – is in Plymouth today and could have brought you home.” There was a brief pause, her aunt evidently thinking hard. “Have you enough money, Stacie?”

She laughed. “Just enough, yes. Do you know of one that would be suitable?”

“Try the Station Hotel. Your uncle and I stayed there once before a long journey, and it was very pleasant.”

They were able to speak only briefly before the pips sounded and Stacie told the operator that she did not want another three minutes. The coins slid down into the machine and clunked audibly; she put on her gloves again, and ventured outside.

The Station Hotel was easily found, though she had more trouble obtaining a room, for the snow and ensuing delays had stranded several passengers. Eventually, the harried gentleman behind the desk had succeeded in housing his inadvertent guests, and Stacie ascended to her room. She switched on the fire immediately, unfastened her coat and sat down thankfully.

Feeling a little warmer, Stacie took off her coat and hat, and changed her boots for a pair of light shoes. She tidied her hair and washed her face and hands decidedly, then descended to the hotel’s dining room for her evening meal.

To her dismay, she spotted a bored-looking woman dressed in a well-cut grey suit, who looked up and, recognising her, beckoned imperiously for Stacie to join her at the table. Not wishing to seem rude, Stacie walked towards the woman, and sat down in the indicated chair.

“This is a surprise, Eustacia. Is your aunt with you?”

The glacial tones indicated no pleasure in the encounter. Equally warmly, Stacie responded, “No, I was on my way home. The snow has disrupted my plans. And you?”

“I will be taking the early train to London tomorrow. Really, these railway companies seem to delight in making one rise at unreasonably early hours. As it is I shall have barely a day in town before having to return home again. At least Grizel will not be staying with us for Christmas – she’s staying with friends goodness knows where.”

“How is Grizel?” Stacie asked, eagerly. “Have you heard from her recently?”

She realised that this had been a tactless question as soon as the words left her mouth, for the sour expression on Mrs Cochrane’s face had been unmistakeable. “I don’t know if you’d call November _recent_ ,” she said. “But then we’re always the last people to know what she’s doing. She’s a very desultory correspondent.”

Stacie wrapped her coldest manner around her in a way that she had not done for some time, but the older woman seemed to bring out the old Eustacia, the one the newer Stacie did not much like. They conversed politely, avoiding mentioning Mrs Cochrane’s step-daughter.

Stacie excused herself as soon as possible after dinner, in her most stately manner, and achieved the refuge of her room with a shudder. As she brushed her short hair vigorously, she wondered what would have happened to her if Aunt Margery had been as welcoming as Mrs Cochrane to an unwanted relative: tried to run away sooner, probably. The bedroom was beautifully warm and cosy: Stacie yawned three times in succession, grinned at herself, and went to bed.

It had continued to snow overnight, though someone had been out to sweep the pavement between the hotel and the station so that it was not slippery underfoot. Nevertheless, she went cautiously. The leaden sky promised more snow.

There was a sullen fire burning in the waiting room, but Stacie was assured that her connecting train would be running, though it might be delayed. Only one hour later than expected, she was ensconced in a freezing cold compartment on her way home again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Charles Kent is something of a stealth crossover character – I have imagined him as younger brother to Norman Kent, the eponymous _Last Hero_ of the novel by Leslie Charteris.


	4. Nice Work If You Can Get It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scattered across the country, Stacie and her friends celebrate Christmas.

TAVERTON

Her aunt and eldest cousin, Ned, were waiting on the platform of Taverton’s small station; she was surprised how glad she was to see them, smiling welcome and waving, especially after her encounter with Mrs Cochrane. Ned took her case courteously, and they walked cheerfully up the steep cobbled street despite the packed snow underfoot.

Ned was in his second year of a physics degree at Cambridge, and was full of talk about his studies. Stacie was interested to hear about the new work being undertaken at the university, and the theories of atomic structure being expanded and revised due to experiments and with mathematics. Mrs Trevanion smiled to hear them talking amicably together: it had taken some time before Ned revised his previously low opinion of his cousin. At lunch time the younger boys, who had been having a snow-fight with some of the neighbours’ children, clattered into the house gleefully shouting their victory.

After lunch, Stacie cleared away and washed the dishes, assisted by a changing line-up of cousins, then took her case and the tantalising pile of post up to her small bedroom so that she could unpack and read. There were letters from former school friends who had returned to homes elsewhere after the exile from Austria: brisk, chatty epistles giving details of all sorts of people that Stacie had not heard from since leaving for Oxford: and an especially long missive in Joey Maynard’s characteristic scrawl. She sat in the window while the light lasted, and re-read the letters again.

The next few days soon sorted themselves into a routine. Stacie assisted her aunt with various domestic chores between breakfast and lunch, afterwards spending time in the dining room, which had a comfortably large table, studying and reading. Ned, rather shamed into working by his cousin’s industry, joined her there a few days later, until Mrs Trevanion could hardly clear the table for dinner, since there was such a mass of books and papers scattered there, seemingly having made their way from nowhere. Occasionally she would cajole them into going for a walk or making a trip to the grocer’s, simply to get them out of the house.

The family attended a carol service at St Michael and All Angels on Christmas Eve, which inspired even the normally unmusical Gilbert to sing in his cracking treble. Humphrey had joined the ringers for the Christmas Eve peal before the service, an hour’s worth of Stedman’s changes ringing joyfully into the frosty air and echoing from the nearby houses. When he slid quietly into his pew beside Ned, he was pink-faced and perspiring, but still smiling with pleasure.

Reverend Lestrange spoke briefly and eloquently about the Christmas message, and the readings were well-chosen: Stacie found herself moved by the service.

“ _Hark, the herald angels sing: ‘Glory to the newborn king!_ ’” The organ thundered to a close, there was a brief silence, then began a modern, richly tonal voluntary that sped most of the congregation out into the dark evening. Stacie sat listening, with more than her ears, entranced: the rest of her relatives had gathered outside to chat to their neighbours and wish them well for Christmas. When the voluntary, too, had ended, Stacie rose to her feet and sought out the organist, a local music teacher.

“Glad someone liked it,” he said, cheerfully. “It’s by a French chap – Olivier Messiaen.”

“I’m not sure how I can describe what I felt, listening,” Stacie said, uncertainly. “It was so beautiful.”

“I know what you mean. It’s from a cycle called _La Nativité du Seigneur_ : I played the last movement, _God among us_.”

Stacie nodded, thanking him, then re-joined her relatives outside. Her aunt and uncle were chatting to their neighbours, while Frank, who was rather sleepy, had been hoisted onto Ned’s back, and was clinging like a leech, legs dangling. Mrs Trevanion suddenly noticed her youngest son’s tiredness, and bade farewell to her friends. They returned home quietly, and went up to bed without fuss.

NORFOLK

In another church, the first reader stepped up to the lectern and touched the open Bible. “ _In the beginning was the Word_ ,” he read aloud, “ _and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. The same was in the beginning with God. All things were made by him; and without him was not any thing made that was made..._ ” He did not stumble, the phrasing familiar through countless church services, making the words come alive, ending, “ _And the Word was made flesh, and dwelt among us, and we beheld his glory, the glory as of the only-begotten of the Father, full of grace and truth_.” He sat down again in his pew, relieved he had not made a mess of it, and caught a glance from his uncle Peter in which congratulation and amusement were equally mixed: Saint-George grinned back quickly, then opened his hymn book to _Veni Emmanuel_ , which was one of his favourite carols. He heard his uncle’s husky tenor, aunt’s rich alto, and father’s enthusiastically bellowing bass, before lifting up his own voice and paying no further attention to the other singers. The lowest notes of the organ reverberated in the pews and vibrated against his feet, sending tremors along his bones.

LONDON

Her apricot-coloured dress and leaf mask had pleased her when she had had them made, but now, under the dazzling lights and in the crimson-walled rooms, she felt dissatisfied with the colour and the style; even her mother’s pearls that her brother had permitted her to wear looked dull and lustreless. As a waiter strolled past, she took another glass of chilled champagne, drank recklessly, and smiled dazzlingly at a tall man in Mephistophelean red who asked her to dance. She set down her empty glass, accepted, and was drawn into a foxtrot.

Her partner’s face, half-hidden behind his mask, swam in and out of focus, but his mouth seemed to be smiling. Beth smiled back.

HERTFORDSHIRE

Barbara felt battered by ill-thought opinions, so that she was finding it harder to recharge her guns with ammunition against all these well-meaning people, who insisted that they had her best interests at heart, and yet seemed to disregard her every wish. Her mother’s friends, in particular, had very strait ideas about what was a woman’s place. Reading history at university was not, according to them, womanly. Surely Barbara did not need a higher education? That should be left to young women who would best benefit, naturally? She wanted to cry aloud that they did not care for her in the slightest, evidently.

She had done her best, over these past few days, to comply with her parents’ wishes. Her mother had seemed pleased to have Barbara home for the holidays, and they had ridden, driven in the car and shopped for presents together. But she still felt that force of parental bewilderment and disappointment which was so hard to fight because it was not outright opposition, and left one feeling small and ungrateful.

She leaned against the tall windows and looked out beyond the lighted room onto the terrace, resting her hot cheek against the cold pane. The distorted reflection in the old glass made her turn, politely: a tall, fair-haired gentleman in evening dress, carrying two champagne glasses.

“Does your mother permit you to drink champagne?” The look that accompanied the question was somewhat ironical: Captain Mansel had been a friend of her parents for years, and they were unlikely to object.

She smiled. “Since it’s you offering, I think she would. Thank-you.” She took the tall flute and sipped, curiously. “It has an interesting taste,” she added.

“Your education has obviously been skimped if you haven’t tasted pink champagne before. I’m sorry,” he added, seeing her expression, “that was _not_ intended as a comment on your studies, Barbara.”

She nodded. “Thank-you.”

Mansel regarded her with some sympathy. “How do you like Oxford? It can be something of a backwater – once in, one rarely escapes.”

“I like it,” she said, rather defiantly. “And if liking studying makes me a bluestocking, then so be it!”

“I usually bar learned women myself,” he said, thoughtfully, “at least, always used to. But you modern women are making me change my mind.” As he was nearly thirty years her senior and a family friend, Barbara did not say what she felt. Nevertheless, her expression evidently gave her away. “I beg your pardon,” he apologized, gravely. “I’m becoming old and hidebound, clearly.”

“Well, I wouldn’t dream of saying so, sir,” she replied lightly, feeling more at ease.

He smiled suddenly. “You’re a nicely brought up girl, but you make me feel my age with that ‘sir’. When you’ve finished your glass, please do me the honour of a dance – something not too difficult.”

Barbara placed her glass, still half-full, on the window sill and sank into a deep curtsey. “Sir,” she said, grandiloquently. “I shall be honoured.”

His wry expression, appreciating her manner, made her laugh. They returned to the brilliantly-lighted room where the dancing was being held, and found the band about to start a waltz. Mansel was a better dancer than his game leg and self-deprecating manner had led her to believe, and his conversation was entertaining without – minor miracle! – being patronising. Barbara suddenly discovered that she was enjoying herself.

LONDON

Beth woke up, her head splitting. “Oh God,” she groaned aloud. It felt as though some unkind person had just driven a spike into her skull. As she lay, hardly daring to move, she gradually became aware that she was still in her evening gown, though her shoes were missing. What was she lying on? It felt soft and yielding beneath her clutching fingers: feathers beneath a brocaded cover. She unstuck her eyelids and cautiously raised her head. The movement was her undoing: she groaned again, and ignominiously vomited onto the floor.

A few moments later, Patrick’s familiar voice said sardonically, “So you’re awake, then?”

Time went away for a while, then returned: someone was gently sponging her face with cool water and saying, “Let me help you up, miss. See if you can sit up.”

Beth’s eyes opened again, and took in her sitting room, bright with wintry sunshine. One of the maids was cleaning the floor and carefully not grumbling in the master’s presence; Beth’s own maid was holding up a glass encouragingly, fizzing with a noise that seemed all too loud to Beth’s agonised head. And Patrick was standing in the doorway, fully dressed, hands in his trouser pockets, looking distinctly grim.

“You’re in no fit state to be yelled at,” he said, curtly. “But what were you _thinking_ , Beth?”

She winced, and sipped at the Alka-Seltzer while her maid undid the elaborate hairstyle that was partly contributing to the headache. “Sorry,” she murmured, crossly.

“ _Sorry_?” he uttered, incredulously. “Honestly, Beth, it’s not enough that you had to go to that party after I’d expressly asked you not to, but that your hostess had to telephone to me to fetch you home, you being in no fit state to flag down a cab... I have never been so ashamed in my life.” Her half-brother shut his mouth on harder words, controlling his temper. “Lunch will be served at one o’clock. Come down when you feel better. Your friend, Miss Benson, telephoned to wish you a happy Christmas.” He turned out of the room, shutting the door quietly behind him.

Beth’s mouth quivered with the effort of holding back tears. Her maid helped her up off the sofa where she had been lying, and gently took her to the bathroom, where the scent of lavender was rising from a steaming bath. Beth lay soaking in the water, a damp flannel across her brow hiding the tears that leaked from her eyes.

TAVERTON

Stacie had been surprised and pleased to speak to Barbara on the telephone that morning. She had sounded remarkably cheerful, and explained that her parents had a party of guests staying, but that she had been able to do enough reading that she felt as though she had not been wasting her time at home. Stacie had approved, and wished her well: they bade each other a Happy Christmas.

Humphrey and Gilbert had gathered greenery the previous afternoon, and the house was gay with holly for Christmas Day. Even Stacie put away her books without protest and joined in with the festivities, which included a fat roast goose, pulling crackers made by the boys, and singing carols whilst Humphrey played for them.

Later that evening, Mrs Trevanion sat with her husband in his study and watched the firelight flicker over his dear face. “She’s almost a different girl, now,” she observed, thinking aloud about her niece. “When I think, when she came to us, how she corrected us all and thought she knew best...” She smiled a little, remembering. “Loth as I am to admit that Irene Cochrane was right, school seems to have changed her completely, and for the better.”

“On the surface, yes,” her husband replied, surprising her. “But deep down, what Stacie considers the really important things still matter to her more than mere human ties. Like learning, and Oxford.” He saw a distressed look pass over her face, and added quickly, “It’s just the way she is, Margery, and we can’t and shouldn’t want to change that. She has ambition and brains and single-mindedness, even if she can think of others now and respect them and their opinions. I think she’ll go far in whatever she wants to do.”

“I hope she’ll be safe. I worry that she’ll overwork and tire herself.”

“Her back won’t let her do that, dear. Stacie’s a sensible young woman, and knows what she’s capable of. Would it be right to stop her?”

To this comment Mrs Trevanion had no reply.

Stacie was enjoying her holiday with her relatives, but was conscious of a feeling of eagerness whenever she thought about her coming visit to Beth in London. She knew very little of the city, having been brought up in Oxford and then educated abroad, and so was curious as to what Beth had planned. She had done enough work, she considered, to allow herself some free time for light reading or excursions during her visit – Beth would have been disappointed but not surprised to hear that these involved the South Kensington museum and the National Gallery, rather than, say, Selfridges.

Accordingly, she packed again, bade an affectionate farewell to her aunt and uncle, and was roughly hugged by her elder cousins – Walter and Frank being at the ages where they saw embraces as being rather cissy – before setting off to catch the train, the day before New Year’s Eve. Stacie occupied the first part of her journey by reading, but put her book away after changing to the express, and took out the knitting which she had recently begun. Her ferocious frown of concentration and sighs of exasperation at her clumsiness drew amused smiles from the other occupants of the compartment, and later, an offer to help correct her mistakes from the young woman opposite.

Stacie blushed. “I am terribly sorry. I didn’t mean to disturb you,” she apologized. “It’s just that I can’t seem to get this right at all.”

The young woman, who had on a rather mannishly-cut wool suit, a practical hat and a monocle in her eye, and who looked in her late twenties, smiled encouragingly. “Why don’t you sit beside me and I can show you how to fix it?”

Her companion, a tall, dark-haired young man, smiled and said softly, “I’ll make myself scarce.” He uncoiled himself from the seat and went out into the corridor, removing a cigarette from a case as he did so.

“Thank-you very much.” Stacie handed over her knitting with such an exasperated gesture that it made her travelling companion want to laugh aloud, and she deftly repaired the damage that Stacie’s unaccustomed fingers had wrought.

“You’re lucky that it’s knitting,” she commented. “If it had been crochet or embroidery I’d have been worse than useless.”

By the time the train arrived at Paddington, the three had found much to talk about other than knitting. Stacie’s companions were a Mr and Mrs Fletcher, who had been paying a brief visit to friends in Devon. Mrs Fletcher had taken a degree in English at University College in London seven years previously, and had written a couple of crime novels which she did not seem offended that Stacie had not read. The two had not long been married, and had recently returned from several months travelling in Bulgaria and Transylvania. They all found much enjoyment in talking about their own travel experiences: though the Fletchers had seen very different places and met very different people, compared to Stacie, and she suspected that some censoring of the details was being done, given the occasional narrowed looks being sent her husband’s way from Mrs Fletcher.

They would have spoken longer had the train not come to a final halt amidst a cloud of steam and a screech of brakes, and the sound of officials shouting, “ _London Paddington – all change here!_ ”

Mr Fletcher took down their suitcases with deceptive ease before descending to the platform. They shook hands, Stacie thanking Mrs Fletcher for her help and advice, and them both for the conversation, and smiled to herself as they headed towards the Underground, arguing amiably.

Stacie was relieved to see that Beth had come to meet her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you want to know what Messiaen’s _Dieu parmi nous_ sounds like, [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1wZnq7S3LPg) is Gillian Weir at the organ of Rouen cathedral.
> 
> Jonathan Mansel is a major character in Dornford Yates’ novels and short stories. Mr and Mrs Fletcher are characters (Neville and Sally) who appear in Georgette Heyer’s _A Blunt Instrument_.


	5. Jumpin' At The Woodside

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What will 1939 bring for Stacie and her friends? An unexpected invitation, for a start.

Beth sounded a little subdued, unlike the chattering, lively young woman Stacie was used to. She made no comment, but once they had been conveyed to the Stephenson home in a large and luxurious limousine, and were sitting in Beth’s cosy sitting-room drinking very welcome tea and eating crumpets that they toasted at the fire, she decided to ask the question.

“Forgive me, Beth, but are you feeling quite well? You should have let me know if you would rather I hadn’t come.”

Beth coloured, and hesitated, before replying, “It isn’t that I’m not delighted to see you – because I am. It’s just... well, I’m not sure how to explain.”

Stacie considered. “You needn’t tell me if you don’t want to, Beth. But I might be able to help.”

Beth decided to make a clean breast of it. “I’m at outs with Patrick. We’d both been invited to a party on Christmas Eve, but he couldn’t go, and asked me not to, either. He _said_ it was because he couldn’t accompany me, and that he doubted the... likely company.” The words were coming more easily, helped by the interested look on her friend’s face. “I went anyway. It was a costume party, and we were all to unmask at midnight.” She sighed, and looked down. “Pat had to send the car for me. He said I was so drunk I couldn’t walk. I don’t remember much of what happened, Stacie, and I’m so worried about what I might have done, and so ashamed of myself.”

Though shocked by this confession, Stacie reached out for Beth’s hand and squeezed it reassuringly between hers. Her friend was near to tears, and this kindly pressure made her feel even more emotional: her eyes filled, though she made a valiant attempt to control herself.

“What do you remember?” Stacie asked quietly, praying for guidance.

The story which emerged was not an edifying one, but Beth made no excuses for herself, and Stacie admired her honesty. Beth had been feeling reckless due to her half-brother’s disapproval, and in a mood to flout his warnings. She had drunk too much champagne, and had not noticed how it had affected her until too late. She remembered dancing, and laughing at someone whose face she did not recall, and being kissed: but nothing further until she had woken the next day in her own home. “I do these stupid things to prove to Pat that he isn’t Dad,” she added, ruefully.

“I think he knows that,” Stacie said drily. “But he does love you. Did you enjoy yourself? Was it solely to prove your point to him that you disregarded his wishes?”

Beth shrugged her shoulders. “I wish I knew. I know he’s only looking out for me, but – do you ever feel that you have to do something bad, just to shake up your aunt?”

Stacie blushed. “Not now. I decided to pay back – certain people – for the way in which I was treated – but I ended up the one hurt, and badly, at that. It doesn’t pay to take your revenge, I’ve learned.”

Beth frowned thoughtfully. “I didn’t enjoy myself. I don’t think I would have done even if Pat had been there to repel the more... choice spirits. I like to dance and flirt with young men – though I know you don’t approve,” she added wryly. “But there’s a certain line which I don’t like them to cross, and I think it was. Crossed, I mean.”

Stacie thought for a moment. “You could think of it as being tempted, and pray for help to resist temptation. Or you could take the Freudian interpretation and imagine that your id needs to be restrained.”

“My _id_?” said Beth, surprised, and thinking she had misheard.

“As far as I understand it, Freud postulated that there are three controlling forces on the mind – the id, ego and superego. One’s id makes one do things one later regrets. One’s childish impulses to do whatever we want. The ego is our selfish thoughts that concern us alone. And controlling them both is the superego, which is constructed from society’s expectations and our moral codes.” She paused. “I’m not sure that he’s right, but it’s an interesting concept, I think.”

“Gosh.” Unexpectedly, Beth giggled. “That’s made me feel better.”

Beth did then look and sound better, though Stacie thought it might have been more due to confessing her misdeeds and unburdening herself to her friend.

Beth’s maid unpacked for the guest, while Beth took Stacie on a tour round the house. It was a tall, narrow building with long windows and an elegant staircase. The floors were gleaming parquet, shining with wax and hard polishing, and the walls were panelled in light-coloured oak, set with dark oil paintings. Stacie, to her awe, had a bathroom to herself, with a shower set inside a massive porcelain hood over the bath.

They were joined at dinner by Beth’s half-brother, who had smiled to see Miss Benson. He had also been pleased to see Beth looking more herself, for her demeanour lately had been so unlike herself that he had been mentally kicking himself for scolding her so harshly about the party. He made a good host, and Beth seconded him ably, so that they all enjoyed the evening. Stacie was sorry to say goodnight, but she was tired with her journey, and had stayed up later than usual for courtesy’s sake.

Beth went upstairs too, making sure that Stacie found her bedroom easily.

The next morning, Stacie laughed wryly at her own eagerness to try the shower, and was careful not to get too much water on the floor. Although the house even had central heating, and the huge cast iron radiators in her room were working hard, a peep beneath the blind at her window showed her that there was heavy rain falling outside. She dressed in warm, practical clothes – skirt and pullover – and made her way downstairs to partake of breakfast. Mr Stephenson was sitting at the table reading from a selection of newspapers and drinking tea, seemingly having finished eating.

“Good morning,” he said, standing up as she entered. “Did you sleep well?”

“Yes, thank-you,” Stacie replied, sitting down and helping herself from one of the covered dishes which held bacon, kidneys, liver, fried half-tomatoes and fried bread.

“Ask Webber if you want eggs, or a kipper, or anything else,” Stephenson added, glancing at the butler. “There was some kedgeree, but I ate most of it when I came down. Mrs Thomas will probably have made more if you’d like some.”

Stacie smiled. “Thank-you, but I’ll stick to eggs.” She asked for scrambled eggs, which Webber was pleased to approve, and poured tea for herself.

Breakfast was a quiet meal. At eight-thirty, Stephenson glanced at his watch and frowned a little, but before he could despatch Webber to find out where Beth was, his half-sister walked calmly into the room and sat down beside him.

“Morning, Pat,” she said, kissing his cheek. “Sorry I was beastly to you, and let you down: I’ll try not to do it again.”

He smiled. “You’re forgiven. And please forgive me for shouting at you.”

“Very well.” She shot a mischievous look at Stacie, who was trying to ignore their conversation. “Now that I’m sanctified and justified – what shall we do today?”

Later, on New Year’s evening, they both dressed in their smartest frocks ready to go out, and did not keep Mr Stephenson waiting more than a couple of minutes while the car stood at the door. Stacie was the kind of person to whom dress, apart from a certain neatness and propriety, was a matter of unconcern, but she had allowed Beth to give advice, and had even followed some of it. However, she was largely oblivious to the contrast between the two of them: Beth in a dress of pink silk exquisitely embroidered in scallops (which had come from Paris), wrapped in a matching coat, high-heeled slippers and a little gold evening bag; and Stacie in her only evening dress, made by a Plymouth dressmaker, of plain dark blue silk and chiffon, her winter coat, and low-heeled glacé dancing shoes.

Nevertheless, Mr Stephenson was entirely sincere when he said, as the car was moving cautiously through the misty dark, “You girls look lovely.”

Beth smiled, and thanked her half-brother demurely, used to receiving compliments, but Stacie blushed, glad that no-one could see her.

Presently the car drew up outside an impressive frontage of white-painted stucco: there was a striped awning above their heads, and a carpet laid between kerb and front door, so that one did not have to step out directly onto the pavement. A uniformed footman held the door open while the Stephenson party emerged from their car, and they followed other guests up the steps into the house. They were divested of their coats by another footman, Stacie trying to disguise how strange she found all this, and descended a short flight of stairs to an enormous ballroom. There were many people present, and a small orchestra were discoursing music to which a few couples were already dancing. At the bottom of the stairs were their hosts for the evening, Mr and Mrs Crispin Willoughby, courteously greeting their guests as they descended.

Mrs Willoughby was American, though it was not apparent in her voice: there was only the slightest trace of an accent. She was tall, and laughing, with shining dark hair without any grey in it, and a simply but beautifully cut emerald green sleeveless dress. She made her guests feel very welcome with only a smile and a few words, and brief introductions to others. Beth was introduced to John Shere: a fair-haired young man who disguised his lack of height by a straightness of posture and ease of movement, and who immediately asked her to dance. Beth accepted with alacrity, and they were soon marking the steps of a waltz.

Mrs Willoughby smiled at Stacie, and said, “I’ll introduce you to Major Alastair, since he’s always bemoaning that he can never find a tall woman to dance with.” She swept Stacie along with her, to a corner where two gentlemen were sitting in discussion. “Dominic, I’d like you to meet Miss Benson,” and the younger of the two stood, unfolding his length like a stork: he was very tall, so that even Stacie felt towered over, with closely-cropped black hair and a saturnine expression. He was dressed in a dark blue mess jacket and scarlet waistcoat, both liberally trimmed with gold braid, and dark blue trousers; she felt quite outshone by his sartorial magnificence. Mrs Willoughby added, “Miss Benson, Major Lord Dominic Alastair.”

Alastair smiled, making him look immediately less inimical. “How d’you do?” he asked. “Do you dance, Miss Benson?” Stacie nodded, though a little apprehensively. The smile became a grin, and she smiled back, suddenly aware of friendliness, and he held out a hand. “Would you, in that case, do me the honour?”

“Thank-you: I should be delighted.”

He danced well, despite his height, guiding Stacie deftly through the steps and amongst the other guests: she caught sight of Beth, who did not need to concentrate on her footwork, chatting idly to her partner, who looked pleased and delighted. Stacie did not have much attention for conversation, at least at first, but once she had found the right rhythm, she was able to reply to the remarks addressed to her, and even to find that she was having fun.

She had little chance to speak to Beth during the evening, since that young lady was very much in demand as a partner, but she was able to dance a couple of times with Mr Stephenson, and thank him for his contribution to her enjoyable visit. He smiled, saying, “You’re very easy to amuse, Miss Benson, but thank-you, anyway. Madge and Crispin always give good parties, so I can’t claim any credit for tonight’s enjoyment.”

However, at supper, Beth and she were able to sit together, and talked animatedly about the evening, particularly about the fashions and the various people Beth knew or recognized. Beth was pleased to see that her friend was relaxed and evidently enjoying herself: not at all primly, as she had half-feared: she congratulated herself on her cleverness in inviting Stacie to stay.

After supper, there was more dancing for those who wanted, as well as cards and other games of chance for those who preferred a less energetic way of spending their time. Beth and Stacie danced, since neither were much interested in cards or gambling. Stephenson glanced at his sister from time to time, but she had evidently taken to heart his earlier scolding, and was drinking only lemonade or cider cup, which relieved him. He checked on Miss Benson, too, from time to time, just for form’s sake, since Beth’s friend was a good deal more sensible.

Stacie danced with her host, once, a witty and amusing man, who made her laugh, and who also made it look as though she could dance well. She had never realized before that the skill of one’s partner made a difference to one’s own enjoyment.

At midnight, the strokes of Big Ben were broadcast from a large radiogram, courtesy of the BBC, and there was much wishing everyone a happy new year: though many of the voices were sober and serious. What would 1939 bring?

Dispelling the serious tone, the last dance was a Sir Roger de Coverley, and Stacie found herself partnered with Major Alastair again, with Beth and her partner next couple. The long dance progressed, the set changing as couples moved slowly up to the head of the ballroom, until finally, everyone was in their original places, and the players made their final flourish. The dancers applauded, and the gathering began to break up. Not everyone left at once, too occupied chatting to friends or acquaintances, while the band packed up their instruments, and drinks were still circulating.

It was almost two o’clock before Mr Stephenson gathered up Beth and Stacie, and the three made their farewells to their hosts. The car was waiting, and despite her weariness Stacie made sure to thank the chauffeur when they arrived home, yawning: it seemed so very self-indulgent to have such service, so late at night, saving one from taxis.

Stacie and Beth spent some time over the next few days taking turns in determining what to do each day – Beth’s ideas tended towards shopping and restaurants, and Stacie’s towards museums and parks, but they managed to divide their time equally between these interests. On Piccadilly, for example, Beth happily wandered around Simpson’s and Stacie did her best to look interested, whereas in Hatchard’s, it was Beth who had to drag her friend away from the books.

They visited Barbara where she was staying with her great-aunt, and were taken out to lunch by that venerable lady at the Savoy. Lady Plague was an interesting conversationalist; brisk and snappy; telling stories that always found her in embarrassing situations, and very matter-of-fact. She told them all that she had always disapproved of women’s higher education, and saw no reason to change her mind now. “It’s folly to think you can be just like the men,” she said. “You just demean yourself. And what good will it do you, knowing who fought whom and when? You can’t run a home on learning.”

Stacie stared at her hostess in disbelief. “There have been learned women throughout history,” she replied. “Many of them have been forgotten, though, because of their sex. Elizabeth spoke and wrote several languages, including Latin; she studied the classics. She was admired for that. Why should it be different now?”

“She was Queen of England, not a position any of you are likely to attain,” Lady Plague replied dryly, which made her guests laugh despite themselves. “Why did you want to study, Miss Stephenson, Miss Benson? I’ve heard from Barbara here why she felt it necessary to waste her time at university.”

Barbara cast a glance at Stacie as if to say, _Do you see what I have to put up with?_ Stacie replied seriously, “If I had not been able to study, Lady Plague, part of me would have died. I need to learn, to read, to understand: I read Classics because I find the ancient world fascinating, not necessarily because it is so different from ours, but because it is so similar. If I’d been born before the advent of degrees for women, I would have read in my parents’ library, I would have bought books, and I would still have studied. I can’t imagine ever ceasing.”

“Hm,” said the older woman, with reluctant respect. “You’re in a minority. You, Miss Stephenson?”

“Oh, I just wanted to meet a nice young man, and Oxford seemed the best way to go about it, without having the bore of being presented,” said Beth frivolously, though moved by Stacie’s words. She could not imagine feeling so strongly about her English degree, but she certainly wasn’t going to tell Lady Plague that.

Lady Plague grinned. “Put me in my place, young lady. Very well.”

The rest of the meal passed off without further controversy, and the girls felt stuffed by the end of it, since Lady Plague’s interpretation of hospitality was generous, to say the least.

Stacie and Beth rolled home, rejecting all idea of afternoon tea with groans of satiety when Webber proposed this, and sat down in the bright salon which looked out over the square. Stacie tackled her knitting, which was growing to a respectable size, while Beth – who had a talent for it – read aloud from _Artists in Crime_ , which she had bought recently. While they followed the gradual ravelling of the plot, Stacie enjoying Beth’s voices, Webber came in, saying, “There is a telephone call for you, Miss Benson.”

“Oh, thank-you,” Stacie said, putting down her knitting carefully, and followed the butler downstairs to the telephone in its screened corner. “Hello?” she said interrogatively, wondering if it was her aunt, and hoping there was no bad news.

“Miss Benson? It’s Saint-George. I trust you’re well.”

Despite herself, Stacie found herself smiling. “I am, thank-you. And you, I hope.”

“Well enough, thanks. Did you have a good time at your aunt’s? Did it snow there? It was pretty heavy at Denver: I took my young cousins tobogganing, and a great, if chilly, time was had by all, as you can imagine.”

“It snowed pretty heavily before Christmas,” Stacie replied, “and froze hard. Made me wish I’d brought my skates out of storage, but skis would have been more useful, I think, and I never learned.”

“Not even at your school? I thought you were up in the mountains.” Saint-George sounded as though he had all day to talk, certainly not as though he had to cram as many words into three minutes as was possible.

“Oh, we were. But I was there for less than a term before I injured my back, and after it recovered, Dr Russell thought it better for me not to try to learn to ski. I enjoyed skating, though. The lake froze most winters, apparently, apart from certain areas where springs made the ice rotten, but that left plenty of ice available. Are you in London now?”

“Yes. My parents are still at Denver: hunting, you know. What hunting they’ll actually get with the snow as it is I’m not sure, but I decided I’d make tracks for Town.” He paused briefly, and before Stacie could think of another topic of conversation, he said abruptly, as though the question was a difficult one, “Would you lunch with me tomorrow, if you’re free?”

Stacie was rather surprised by the invitation. She saw instinctively that she should not ask if Beth could join them, and yet she felt oddly shy about accepting the offer. “I’d like to,” she said, honestly. “Let me check that Beth hasn’t anything planned. Will you hold the line?” she asked, in an operator voice, “Or shall I call back?”

“I’ll hold on,” Saint-George replied, a warmth in his voice as though he was smiling. Stacie laid the receiver carefully on its side, and mounted the stairs to the salon.

“Beth,” she said, “have you plans for tomorrow? I’ve been asked to lunch.”

“No, not really. I can visit Barbara if you’re occupied. May I ask with whom?” she added, curiously.

Stacie blushed, but she replied sturdily, “Lord Saint-George,” and felt, the moment she said it, how absurd it was, and grinned.

Beth raised her eyebrows. “Well, far be it from me to spoil a promising friendship... Go with my blessing, my child, but you must promise to tell me all about it afterwards.” She grinned in return.

“Certainly!” Stacie returned to the telephone, walking as quickly as she could, and picked up the receiver once more. “Hello? It’s me again,” she said ungrammatically. “Lunch would be lovely. Where shall I meet you?”

“How about Laurent’s?”

“I’ve really no idea – I don’t know London much better after a week’s stay.”

“Of course – sorry. It’s on Air Street, just off Regent Street. Shall we say at one o’clock?”

“Thank-you. I look forward to it.”

They said their goodbyes, and Stacie went back to the salon thoughtfully. Beth looked up from the book, and eyed her friend curiously, but did not ask the questions which were almost tumbling out of her mouth. Her restraint surprised her friend, though Stacie recognised that Beth’s curiosity would have to be sated at some point: indeed, she decided that it might be of some relief in talking to her friend about him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lady Plague is a character from Dornford Yates’s books and appears prominently as Harriet, Lady Touchstone before marrying Sir Andrew Plague KC. She’s Barbara’s great-aunt, and I’ve also made her Barbara’s godmother. The Willoughbys also appear in Yates’ works. Major Alastair is a nod to Georgette Heyer’s _Devil’s Cub_.
> 
> Beth's evening dress owes not a little to [this](https://www.metmuseum.org/art/collection/search/83259?searchField=All&sortBy=Relevance&ft=Madeleine+Vionnet&offset=0&rpp=20&pos=1) one at the Met by Madeleine Vionnet.


	6. Heart and Soul

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lord Saint-George is discovering for the first time that intelligence and keen interest in a woman can be just as attractive as good looks.

Stacie was punctual at the restaurant, though it had taken her some time to realise that the discreetly brass-plaqued doorway was the entrance to the place she was seeking. Once inside, her coat was reverently borne away by an attendant, and she was conducted to a table. Lord Saint-George rose as she approached, and they shook hands. It was rather a shock to see him in the flesh after their correspondence: Apollo Belvedere in a well-cut grey suit. Still, the smile was friendly and charming, and he bade her sit down with an expansive gesture which almost knocked the salt cellar off the table. He caught it with an unconscious reflex action, and they both found themselves laughing, the shyness gone.

As they settled themselves, and a ready stream of speech was leaving his lips and making his guest feel at ease, Saint-George was taking stock of her appearance. Out of college clothes and her scholar’s gown, she was neatly garbed in a grey serge dress which was saved from severity by a frivolous froth of white chiffon at her throat and wrists. The less said about her hat the better, but her hair was thick and fair and curly beneath, and her grey eyes were well set beneath the long brows. She was not the best-looking nor the most fashionably dressed girl he’d ever taken to lunch, but she did not look out of place in this setting.

They talked at first about their respective holidays, then about music, for he was knowledgeable if not practised, and from there to mathematics and philosophy. As a result, neither paid overmuch attention to the food – which would have annoyed the chef, had he witnessed such indifference. Over dessert, which was a rich chocolate mousse infused with orange, they found themselves discussing, more seriously, the prospect of war.

“Chamberlain says _Peace in our time_ , but I don’t think that peace will last much longer. Not with Austria and part of Czechoslovakia subsumed into the Reich – who knows what will be next on the list of acquisitions.”

“Alsace?” Stacie suggested. “Poland? It’s terrible to think it might happen. So many people uprooted and displaced, and all for what? For filthy ideas which don’t even make sense.”

“I have no idea how anyone could find him inspiring. He looks like a funny little man with a silly moustache with the salutes and the shouting.”

“Do you speak German?”

“No, to my shame. My French is pretty good, though.”

“I heard one of his speeches broadcast on the wireless when I was still in Austria. I’m not sure how, now, since the school tried to keep the situation from us – or at least, to keep us from understanding how serious it was. But there was nothing there: no ideas, no sensible plans, nothing real. It was all rhetoric, and soap-bubbles about the great Reich soon to spread over the world.” She shuddered suddenly. “I think what made it worse was hearing the roars of approval from the crowd.”

Saint-George put down his spoon and put his hand reassuringly over hers. “Hitler’s Reich won’t come here, I’m sure of it. We have our Empire: why would we want to be part of someone else’s?”

“It’s my Austrian and Hungarian friends, like Giovanna and Ilonka and Maria, and their families, that I’m worried about,” she said, honestly. His warm fingers were comforting, but her heart was beating hurriedly, nonetheless. She glanced down, noticed again how beautiful his hands were. Was it entirely fair that he should be so handsome?

They finished their desserts in silence, suddenly uncertain again, and Saint-George cursing himself for that unconscious gesture.

The arrival of coffee broke the restraint, and Stacie was moved to comment on the rich blackness, without blankets of whipped cream. “The Austrian obsession with whipped cream is delicious at first,” Saint-George replied, stirring a sugar-lump into his cup while Stacie poured in hot milk. “It quickly becomes monotonous, though the pastries are delicious – and such a variety of them!”

“You’ve been to Austria?”

“Vienna, a couple of times; Salzburg with my uncle, once, when I was about fifteen; Carinthia last year – thirty-seven, I mean. I keep forgetting it’s 1939 already.” She nodded, and he suddenly remembered, “Did you have a good time at your New Year’s Eve party?”

“I was rather stiff the next day, since I hadn’t danced so much in – well, not ever before! But I had a lovely time, thank-you. Were you still at Denver for New Year’s Eve?”

He nodded. “A houseful of my parents’ friends. Not the most convivial of evenings, but the dancing was enjoyable.” He paused, then added, “Would you like anything else?” Stacie shook her head, and he signalled for the waiter to bring the bill.

When this was paid, and they were being helped into their coats, Saint-George suggested that, since the afternoon was fine, that they walk along Piccadilly to the parks, and watch the ducks. Stacie agreed to this programme, and they walked along together, still chatting. It would not have startled his family, who knew Jerry for an inveterate talker, but his seriousness of manner and only occasional facetiousness would have surprised them. They wandered down the edge of Green Park, crossed the Mall and entered St. James’ Park with its leafless trees and gravelled paths.

It was cold but clear, and ice rimed the edges of the lake. Several children, in the charge of severely-dressed nurses or nannies, were throwing bread to the ducks. Sunlight blazed off the flaming orb above Methodist Central Hall, and Saint-George pointed out various buildings of interest. Stacie had never asked Beth about these landmarks, whereas Beth, being so used to the city, had grown accustomed to them, and had never realised that Stacie would find them strange. They strolled across the park, idly, discussing architecture, then onto Birdcage Walk and Great George Street, where the engineers had their institutions, and from there to Westminster Abbey.

“Would you like to stay for Evensong?”

Stacie looked at her companion suddenly, meeting a glance which was, for a moment, earnest and hopeful, before he smiled, lop-sidedly. “I’d love to stay,” she said. “Are you sure you wouldn’t mind?”

“Wouldn’t ask if I didn’t mean it,” he replied, honestly, then added, wryly, “It’s not what I’d do if left to myself, of course, but it’s no great hardship, hearing evensong at the Abbey.”

Stacie laughed, unable to help herself. “Thank-you. Shall we go in?”

It was almost time for dinner by the time Saint-George restored Miss Benson to the Stephensons’ house. She thanked him for a very pleasant afternoon, and they stood, slightly awkwardly, at the top of the steps.

“Good evening, Miss Benson,” he said. “You’ve made today special. Thank-you.”

“Good night, Lord Saint-George.”

“Actually, you might call me Jerry. I always feel that I ought to be fighting a dashed dragon with a title like Saint-George.”

She grinned. “I’d not thought of it. My name’s Eustacia – Stacie to my friends.”

“I am privileged that you think me one of them,” he replied. She held out her hand, expecting him to shake it: instead, he raised it to his lips, and kissed the fingers lightly.

The door opened onto the lighted hall, Saint-George let her hand fall, and bade her farewell, then was striding down the street, hands deep in pockets.

“Well!” she said to herself, her breath coming suddenly unevenly. “Gosh.” Webber wisely considered that these disjointed remarks were not addressed to him, and as he took her coat and hat, hoped that she had had a pleasant afternoon.

“Yes, thank-you very much.”

This time, Stacie could hardly wait for dinner to be over so that she could ask Beth for advice. Beth took Stacie up to her sitting-room, where they sat down, and she could contain herself no longer, asking eagerly, “So tell me what happened.”

“We had lunch, and talked, and then walked in Green Park, and heard Evensong at the Abbey, and then came home,” said Stacie baldly.

Beth grinned. “Eustacia Benson! You have no idea how to tell a story! How do you know him well enough for him to invite you to lunch?”

“He wrote to me after we met at Shrewsbury – when the Wimseys came up that Sunday – and we’ve been corresponding since. Do you think I ought not to have done? It’s just that it was an interesting letter, and I felt I liked him because of it.”

“Do you think your aunt might object?”

Stacie shrugged. “I don’t think so, but she might consider the correspondence unsuitable, and urge me to think whether what I was doing was quite respectable. Mrs Russell, I think, would be quite disapproving.” She smiled a little. “Of course, she might surprise me, but I don’t know that she would approve of writing to any man not a relative.”

“I suppose it depends on the tone of the correspondence,” Beth said thoughtfully. “If they’re letters which one could show decently to one’s aunt, then no-one ought to object to the writing. If they aren’t, then perhaps one ought to find out his intentions.”

Stacie gazed at her friend, for a moment, puzzled, before she realised what Beth meant, and coloured violently. After a moment, she managed, “The letters I could show to Aunt Margery and not be ashamed. But – Beth, if a man you knew like this asked you to call him by his Christian name, and kissed your hand when you parted, what would you think?”

“Really?” Beth said, startled, looking closely at her friend and seeing a sort of happy confusion. “It sounds to me like courtship. Do you want that from him, or do you want his friendship alone?”

Stacie considered. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “I’ve never been in love, so I don’t know what it feels like. I do like him – very much.”

“Everyone’s different,” Beth offered, inwardly wondering whether Stacie’s temperate words were masking a deeper feeling. “I’ve had crushes aplenty, but never yet fallen in love. I like to think that if I do I will recognize the feeling, and know straight away. Leave the decision for a while,” she advised. “Write, meet when you have time, and see how things go. You’re bound to find out what you really feel, and what he really wants, too.”

They were both silent for a while, before Stacie said suddenly, “Thank-you, Beth. You have helped.”

“Pleased to be of service, miss,” Beth replied, imitating a London shop-girl, down to the accent, and making Stacie laugh.

*

Returning to Mount Street after he had parted from Stacie, Saint-George was greeted by the not entirely welcome news that his sister had arrived, fresh from a sojourn in Paris. Luggage littered the hall, and the servants were in some confusion. Heeding the butler’s directions, he found Lady Margaret sprawled in an armchair in the library, where there was a blazing fire, toasting her expensively stockinged feet, and nursing a glass of cognac. Her shoulders were still swathed in silver fox fur, but she had removed her hat – an elegant confection of grey felt decorated with feathers and veiling. Imagination immediately placed it on Stacie’s head, and he approved the resulting mental picture.

“Good lord, Meg,” he said, his uplifted mood shattered by the uproar of her arrival. “What on earth are you doing here? Aren’t you supposed to be in Paris?”

“Hello, Jerry,” she replied, languidly. “Do sit down and not ask silly questions. Where are the parents?”

“At Denver, of course. Hunting foxes every bally which way. Aren’t you going there?”

“For hunting, Jerry? Do be sensible.”

Saint-George fought the urge to shake his sister into uttering some kind of lucid explanation. Instead, he said, very patiently, “At Denver, there is a houseful of guests to amuse you: here, there’s no-one but me. And I’d really rather you didn’t fill the place with your gushing friends.”

Meg opened her eyes at that, showing a brief gleam of intelligence. “Oh? I thought you were rather taken with at least one of them.” Then, as his face showed incomprehension, added, “Diana Carteret?”

“Di?” Saint-George cast his mind back to Di Carteret and could not help contrasting her with the young lady he had just left. He smiled, to himself. “No,” he said. The word was final and definite enough that Meg’s interest was briefly piqued.

“So who has replaced her in your affections?” she asked.

“No-one you know,” he replied, briefly, not at all tempted to tell her about Stacie.

“Oh, very well,” his sister replied, losing interest. “When’s dinner?”

“Eight-ish.”

She made a face. “I’m exhausted, Jerry.”

“Well, don’t let me keep you from seeking sweet slumbers,” he replied impatiently. “I daresay the fire in your room’s drawing now, and your bed made. I’ll tell Phillips to have something sent up for you.”

Despite this very clear hint, it was some time before Meg dragged herself out of her chair and made her way upstairs. Her brother sighed, and poured himself a glass of whisky and soda, wondering why conversation with her was so difficult, when with certain other people it was not. Meg was pretty, with thick fair hair, large blue eyes and regular features: yet her lack of animation, or any sort of vitality, did not make her attractive. Not that Saint-George had ever considered this before, since she was his sister, after all, but for the first time he was discovering that intelligence and keen interest could make such a difference in someone’s looks. Stacie Benson was not obviously pretty, but that afternoon, when she had smiled or laughed, and her eyes had crinkled at the corners, or when she had frowned a little in serious concentration, that was when he had experienced a stab of something that was not pain, nor desire, but perhaps was rather a wrench of tenderness.

He sat with his glass, and wondered what she really felt about him. Did she merely like him, a friend with shared experience? Or was it something more than that?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sayers doesn’t make any note of Jerry’s sister’s name. Jill Paton Walsh calls her ‘Winifred’ in her continuations; I’ve decided to ignore that naming.


	7. Moments Like This

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Returning to Oxford after the Christmas vacation, Beth has priorities other than work, and Stacie and Viscount Saint-George grow closer.

OXFORD – Hilary Term 1939

Stacie, Beth and Barbara travelled back to Oxford together on the train, making plans for the coming term. Beth had been seized with the idea of celebrating her birthday – to fall on a Saturday in February – at one of the grander colleges which had the rooms and facilities. Stacie and Barbara, realising that she meant one of the men’s colleges, were rather shocked, but had to acknowledge that the rooms at Shrewsbury were not as commodious as those at, say, Christ Church or Balliol. “I’ll ask Richard Hetherington if we can use his rooms at Balliol – these organ scholars have huge apartments. He has a piano, too, so we can have music and dancing.” Hetherington was more of an acquaintance than a friend of Beth’s, though they had several friends in common.

The three girls spent the rest of the journey thinking of ideas for the party, some of which were less serious than others, and calling forth fits of laughter when Barbara suggested, with a straight face, that they should have an honour guard of rowing Blues to carry Beth into the room “on crossed oars.”

Recovering, eventually, from the giggles this picture conjured up, Beth wrote down the more suitable suggestions in a small memorandum book, and wondered aloud whether she should engage a band.

That evening, after Hall and formal welcomes from the Dean, Stacie sat in her comfortable chair by the gas fire, and reflected over the past few weeks: the contrast between her aunt and uncle’s simple home, and Beth’s accustomed luxury. She found herself getting up and opening her writing case, filling her pen, and beginning to write.

_... It isn’t as if I despise wealth or luxuries, but I can see that they are merely additions to life, which make it pleasanter to live, perhaps, but which aren’t necessary. Given a room of one’s own, enough food and warmth, some engaging companion, and a library of books to ever read and learn from, then one is truly rich. The other would be like trying to subsist entirely on a diet of rich cake and pastries (covered with whipped cream, of course!) – very pleasant for a short time, but apt to ruin the digestion thereafter._

_And now of course I sound ungrateful, even critical, of my dear friend, when I don’t mean it. Or perhaps I do mean it? After all, what good is an enormous house in Mayfair if it’s occupied by two people attended by an army of servants? My aunt, for example, has a cook, a maid, and a charwoman for a family of seven in a house which was probably built for a larger, Victorian, family: yet everything is always clean and tidy, and well-kept. I’m not sure how she manages, now I think about it, given that my cousins are not the tidiest of boys (I except Ned from this since he is at least away for much of the time). You write of Denver that is a “great barracks” of a house, with loyal family retainers, and perhaps it is better to give these people good employment rather than subject them to the alternative – either unemployment or desperately hard lives on the land ..._

It was late when she scrawled, “ _Yours sincerely, Stacie_ ,” at the foot of several sheets of closely-written paper, folded them into an envelope, and addressed it quickly.

Classes began on Monday, Stacie attending Professor Murray’s well-attended lecture on the Greek dramatist, Euripides, and taking copious notes in increasingly untidy handwriting. Her neighbour and fellow-Shrewsburian, Aurelia Trent, grimaced at her at the close of the lecture, saying, “Gosh, I wish he wouldn’t go so fast. I hardly caught any of those references.”

“I think I have them all written down,” Stacie said, looking ruefully at her scribbles, and hoping she would be able to decipher them later in the library. “You can borrow my notes if you can read them.”

Lectures and tutorials and coaching sessions began again from where they had left off in December, with no allowance made by the dons for the intervening weeks. Stacie was glad that she had done so much reading in the vacation, and drew words of praise from Miss Pyke for her preparation.

Beth approached Richard Hetherington and proposed her idea of using his rooms in Balliol for her party. He promised to think about it, which frustrated Beth, who wanted to have things organised _now_ , but it was only a few days later that he agreed, so long as he could also invite his own friends. Since this was only what Beth had expected, she agreed without demur to having the party at least partly filled with Hetherington’s fellow OUDS members, and ticked off the first item in her long list of things to do.

The Bach Choir began rehearsals for the March concert, which was to be a performance of Bach’s _St John Passion_. Stacie found the music more difficult than she had expected, complaining to Barbara one evening: “Bach’s writing for choral voices never sounds natural – it never flows. Not like Handel or Mozart, for example.”

Barbara smiled. “Perhaps it was all those keyboard sonatas and organ fugues he wrote. He just thought of the human voice as another instrument,” she suggested.

“You’re probably right. One could happily play most of the chorus parts on the piano. Not that the _arias_ sound unnatural, however. Some of those are so beautiful – and the music for the Evangelist is always good.”

“I like the bit he sings after Christ’s death where the veil of the Temple was rent.”

“ _Und siehe da, der Vorhang im tempel zerriss in zwei Stuck von oben an bis unten aus,”_ Stacie half-sang, though not at the original pitch. “Yes, very dramatic, with the strings scurrying wildly with him, really sounding like walls tumbling down, and a chaotic ending.”

“I’d forgotten you could speak German,” Barbara said, distracted momentarily from Bach. “Does it make things easier to sing?”

“It helps, certainly. But then I find German easier to sing than Italian – not that I’ve sung much Italian – all those elided vowels.”

Her friend smiled. “I’d be happier in French, but even so I don’t know enough to talk fluently. My friends from home were all being finished in Paris or Dresden, to learn the language, after their general education, whereas I was being coached in Latin, so I could pass the entrance exam to Oxford. Rather different.”

“Have they all come home? I’d imagine that being in Dresden would be rather terrifying, at present,” Stacie commented.

“Most of them, yes. Too many people think war is coming for them to feel that their daughters are safe abroad. Even in Paris, I think. Several of my friends came home at Christmas, and won’t be going back. Helen Pomeroy was in Munich, and the things she mentioned afterwards were quite shocking. Vile propaganda, blatant anti-Semitism – worse than the Middle Ages, she said – violence. She and a friend cocked a snook at some of the excesses, but I think Aunt Belinda was very relieved to have her home again.”

“My old school in the Tirol left Austria last year. Some of the girls were wanted by the Gestapo – oh, not for anything criminal,” she qualified hastily, seeing Barbara’s raised eyebrows. “They’d tried to stop a crowd from harming a Jewish man in the village – he was a jeweller – and whom they’d known for years. They had to escape over the border to Switzerland, and then Madame and Miss Annersley had to make arrangements for the whole school to leave. It was oddly exciting and yet terrifying, for one knew that things were very wrong, but couldn’t help be caught up in the changes that were coming every day.”

Barbara was silent for a moment, thoughtful. “Would the school have been in danger without being associated with wanted criminals?”

“I think so. It was predominantly a British institution, though there were a lot of Austrian girls and those of other countries, and as such would not have been popular in the Nazi Reich, even if Madame and the rest had wanted to keep it going under such a regime.” She smiled, wryly. “When we landed in England, my aunt came to collect me, and I think I was more worried about how the disruption to my schooling would affect my chances of the scholarship I wanted! It feels odd that there’s no more Chalet School – everyone is so much dispersed – it wasn’t an old school when I started there, yet it felt as though the place would last for ever.”

“Perhaps they’ll start it up again somewhere safer,” Barbara suggested, intent to cheer.

*

Stacie found time amid the fascinating topics of Greek sculpture, Latin comedies and Byzantine culture to write to old friends from school, now scattered, former teachers, and her family. Joey Maynard was a prolific correspondent, and wrote far more frequently than Stacie had time to reply. She was living in Guernsey, married only a few months, and writing feverishly, since she wanted to set down in print her experiences of escaping from Austria: in her latest letter, Stacie had been asked for her opinion regarding a sticky episode from the new book, tentatively titled _Nancy Meets a Nazi_.

One letter came at the end of the first week of term, which did surprise Stacie considerably, since it was from Jill Buchan, who was a very desultory letter-writer. Jill had spent just over a year at the Chalet School, aged sixteen – she was the same age as Stacie – before leaving early to study at Cambridge. Jill had made very few friends in her short time at school, Stacie having been the chief of these, mainly because Stacie had been the only other girl in her form who actually liked maths, though Jill had been far ahead of her – far ahead of even those students in the Sixth. Both Miss Leslie and Miss Soames had found her difficult to teach.

Stacie sat in an armchair well supported by cushions, glad of the gas fire which kept her room warm, and the cup of hot cocoa beside her.

_Dear Stacie,_

_Sorry it’s been such ages since I last wrote, but I thought I’d let you know how I’m getting on at present. I hope you’re well, and that all trouble with your back is over – I’ve been down with a heavy cold since New Year, and am only now returning to lectures._

_How was your first term at Shrewsbury? I wish in a way that I had considered Oxford or London, but having been here for so long, it felt odd to go away from Cambridge. I’m doing good work, I think – certainly my tutor seems to agree – and I rather resent the fact that I won’t be awarded a degree, even though I deserve a First. Sorry, I don’t mean to brag, but really – if I was a man, everything would be different._

_I’ve made a few friends here at Girton – they’re mostly very pleasant young women, though some, you wonder why on earth they’re here, since they don’t seem to be much interested in their studies at all, and when one considers the scorn heaped on we women students, one can’t see why they put up with it when they aren’t passionately interested in their subjects. Are things much better in Oxford? I know that at least you’re awarded full degrees, but do you get many male dons thinking that you know nothing because you’re a woman? I’d have liked to go on to Germany after I take the Tripos, but given the current political situation, I think Germany is out of the question. I may well stay at Cambridge and try to publish some of my work – perhaps if I use my real name it might be thought that I am a man! I’d never really liked the name Julian, but at least it’s suitably ambiguous._

_I’ve been introduced to a chap called Alan Turing – very intelligent, but terrified of women – who is doing work on definable numbers and the concept of “Turing machines”. He’s recently returned from Princeton, and is spoken about as one of the stars of King’s. He barely uttered a word to me at the Dean’s party (the Dean at King’s, by the way – I was surprised and pleased by the invitation) – I do hate this tendency on the part of some academic males, who seem to think that women are a completely different species, unable to speak in language that they will understand – a shame, since I wanted to ask him about his paper on Godel’s Entscheidungsproblem. However, I’m glad that not every man in Cambridge treats me as though I’m a fabulous monster!_

_I’ve also been to a couple of Wittgenstein’s lectures – very interesting, but complex language, full of English translations of German constructions – I’m glad I can actually read and speak German to a reasonable degree of fluency (if now with an Austrian accent, which Vincent teases me about). So much mathematical and physical writing has been published by German journals that one has to be able to read the language. Do you find the same in Classics as well?_

_I had a good Christmas – I hope you did, too. My mother and step-father had a long furlough before he was returned to Malaya, so I went home to London for the first time in years – they had been away three years – and had a more pleasant time than I expected. They seemed resigned to me staying at university, though it was the one thing my step-father least wanted for me, but at least he didn’t forbid me, or cut off funds, which he could easily have done. If he’d stopped my allowance, I’d have been unable to stay._

_Linley has been promoted to Captain and is presently guarding a base somewhere in the Channel Islands – I get occasional, very carefully-written letters from him. I hope there won’t be another war, since I fear he’d be bound to get killed._

_Anyway, I think that’s all my news for now – I hope all is well with you, and do write when you have a spare moment (though I don’t really deserve it!)._

_Yours,_

_Jill_

_PS. I met your cousin Edmund Trevanion yesterday – he’s a nice young man, earnest, but oh so young, and really more interested in rugger than physics, unfortunately. He sent his regards, when I told him that I would be writing to you. He also mentioned that it was your birthday next week, so many happy returns for Friday!_

Stacie smiled a little at the post-script, reading Jill’s mild scorn for Ned, lucky to be reading Physics and not sufficiently interested. She reflected that perhaps Jill might have impossibly high standards for students of her subjects. Still, it was always good to hear from her friend, and it was several months since her last letter. Jill had started her degree at Girton the previous year, and would graduate next year: Stacie had no doubt that it would be – if she were a man – with a First.

She put the letter down and sipped her cocoa thoughtfully, marvelling inwardly at Jill’s progress, retold in infrequent letters. Soon discovering that her previous education and natural abilities in mathematics and physics were far more advanced than even the Sixth were expected to learn, Jill had had grudging permission from her step-father to leave the Chalet School a year early, and had been entered at Girton College for the Michaelmas term of 1937. Stacie was herself intelligent enough to realise that what Jill was doing was far beyond her own learning, and guessed that she would soon hear great things of her friend.

She had just begun on an experiment – reading Pliny’s account of the eruption of Vesuvius, not something she was familiar with – when there was a sharp knock at the door.

“Come in,” she said, surprised, looking up from the page.

It was Beth, in gown, coat and hat, with cheeks scarlet from the cold wind, and eyes sparkling. “Hullo, Stacie, old thing,” she said insouciantly. “Do you mind if I disturb you?”

Stacie smiled. “No, go ahead. Take off your hat and sit down. Would you like some cocoa?” she added, gesturing to the gas ring, and putting a bookmark between the pages of her book.

“Oh, no thanks,” Beth responded, shedding garments and revealing a smart green suit. “I’ve just come from gorging myself on coffee and pastries at Lady Margaret Hall.”

“Of course, you were seeing Georgina Layton. Would she play?”

“Yes, she said she’ll do it.”

“Oh, splendid! Your party is going to be the social event of the term – if not the year!” she joked. “I have a ready supply of paper games if the other activities pall,” she added, mischievously.

“One never knows.” Beth grinned, and bounced on the bed, incautiously. “Gosh, I am looking forward to it. Dicky’s been a brick.” She blushed slightly, and Stacie wondered whether or not to tease her friend, before deciding not. After all, Beth had not teased her about Jerry, so the least Stacie could do was to return the compliment.

“Does he sing, by the way, or merely play?” she asked, instead.

“He doesn’t have a bad voice,” Beth replied, trying to be impartial. “Baritone. But he’s a much better player than singer.” To distract Stacie from Richard Hetherington, she asked, “So that’s not a letter from the Viscount?” gesturing a graceful hand towards the opened envelope lying on the table at Stacie’s elbow.

It was Stacie’s turn to flush, but she answered, “No, it’s from my friend, Jill, who’s at Girton. Bemoaning Cambridge’s misogyny – I understand why she decided to study there rather than here or at London – but I suppose it’s more annoying than she anticipated. Because she _is_ brilliant, and she won’t even get the First she deserves.”

“What is she reading?”

“Mathematics and physical sciences. I don’t often bandy about the word genius, but it seems to me that she has it.”

“Gosh,” Beth replied, with respect. If Stacie of all people thought so highly of her friend, then she must be something special indeed. “Anyway, I just popped in to tell you the news. Are you coming down to Hall this evening?”

“Is it dinner-time already?” Stacie glanced at her watch, and rose to her feet. “You’d best dash to leave your coat, Beth – ” but she was speaking to the whirling air, for Beth had squeaked and dashed from the room in a hurry. Stacie grinned to herself, and followed, but in a more dignified manner.

The following Friday brought Stacie’s nineteenth birthday, and cards and parcels from her aunt and cousins, and several of her friends. Beth was disappointed that her friend did not want a fuss made, or a party organised, but had to acknowledge that Stacie did not care for making herself conspicuous. Beth provided a blue cashmere scarf, and Barbara a new pen – Stacie took them both to task for their extravagance, though she was touched by the gifts. She had received a card from Saint-George, which had pleased her, but she was surprised when, not long before lunch the next day, another First Year summoned her from essay writing to the entrance hall where a “chap” was waiting.

She descended stairs quickly, and could not help smiling in pleasure to see her visitor. Saint-George leaped up from his bench and smiled in return. “I hope you don’t mind me bargin’ in on you like this, uninvited and all, because if so, just send me away like an unwanted parcel, not known here.”

“Not at all. It’s lovely to see you. How did you get in, by the way? Padgett is usually very strict with gentlemen visitors.”

He laughed. “I pulled a few family strings. But I hope not to stay long – will you lunch with me?”

“Yes, I’d like to very much. Will I do like this?” she asked, suddenly doubtful, glancing down at her blue-grey tweed skirt and primrose-yellow jumper, mercifully free from ink stains.

“You look delightfully,” he replied, but seriously enough that she blushed.

“I’ll put on my coat – I won’t be long.”

In a few minutes, Stacie was back downstairs, clad in her warm coat and gown, a grey hat and gloves, and Beth’s scarf. “It feels silly to wear the gown over the top of one’s winter coat,” she commented, as they walked out of college and towards the Lodge. “Where are we going?”

“I’m hoping that Grogan’s is still open,” he said wryly. “It was one of my favourite places when I was an undergraduate. They used to do a very good _confit_ of duck, but their other dishes were excellent.”

“Splendid. Gosh, I am hungry, now I think of it.”

“Been essaying?”

“Yes – trying to write something original about Juvenal’s _Satires_.”

“I’m afraid I rather revelled in them – Imperial Roman nightlife, as you might say.”

“I see what you mean.” She chuckled, and added, “Of course, I can’t imagine my former teachers countenancing such sordid subject matter for gently-reared girls. In fact, I think some of the dons tone down their language when they realise they have women students in their classes.”

“You don’t appreciate it?” he asked, surprised.

“I don’t want to be protected from _words_ ,” Stacie responded. “And how can one gain a real appreciation of Classical culture only by reading about the pure, the elevated and the moral? Roman and Ancient Greek life was not like that.”

He nodded. “I’d hate to have been a Spartan, though. All that communal living and disgusting food. I can’t imagine anyone undergoing that in the twentieth century!”

“No, thank goodness.”

Grogan’s was still where Saint-George remembered it, and there was a table free. They lingered a long time over lunch, enjoying the food and talking. They were drinking coffee when Saint-George said, rather hesitantly, “My parents will be in London in April for the season – the mater plans to present Meg – and I’d like it if you could meet them.”

Even Stacie could guess the significance of this request, and she did not reply for some moments. “I couldn’t leave Oxford until the vacation,” she said slowly. “But I’d like to meet your parents. I’m sure I can find a friend to stay with in London – either at Easter or in June.”

“When does term finish?”

Stacie consulted the pocket diary in her handbag. “This term ends on March the eleventh, Trinity term begins on April the twenty-third and ends on June the seventeenth.”

“Mater is planning Meg’s dance for the sixth of June, so all the organisation should be over by the end of term. Honestly,” he added, in exasperation, “you’d think Mater was planning an invasion. Every date had to be scrutinised, and the right day chosen, and as for the guest list... Well, I’m grateful I’ve not been asked to help out.”

“Beth is arranging her birthday party in much the same fashion,” Stacie replied, amused. “It’s not what I’d choose, but it does mean that the guests have a good time.”

“I daresay. It’s very different to my presentation – the Governor just presented me to the King, and that was pretty much all.”

“It’s probably because the reasons for the presentation are different,” Stacie suggested. “The purpose of a woman’s season is to find a husband, isn’t it, whereas there is no equivalent for men. It seems rather an antiquated system to me.”

“I suppose so. Though I can’t imagine that even a Season will help Meg find a husband,” he added uncharitably.

The conversation moved to another topic, and they eventually left Grogan’s in the late afternoon. They walked back to Shrewsbury in the deepening dusk, and halted by Saint-George’s car, a shining black Riley, which he had left parked close to the lodge. He unlocked the boot and retrieved a small parcel, then held it out to Stacie, saying, “Happy birthday, Stacie.”

For a moment, she wondered whether she should decline the gift tactfully, then realised that he was not at all sure that she would accept it. “Thank-you very much,” she said gravely. She reached out for the parcel, their fingers touched, and she almost dropped the gift for the thrill which went through her. Not daring to look up, she opened the package, annoyed and yet interested to find that her hands were trembling. Within the tissue paper sat a small, leather-bound book. She opened it delicately, and saw an illuminated page of unfaded scarlet and azure: a missal. “Oh!” she said, unable to voice her pleasure in words.

Saint-George looked at her with pleased hope, seeing the eagerness and care with which she turned the pages. “Do you like it?” he asked.

“Like it?” she said, looking up. “It’s beautiful. But I can’t accept it, Jerry – it must be worth a fortune.”

“Not quite,” he said, laughing, noticing that she had used his Christian name without thought. “I bought it a few years ago at auction. Uncle Peter is something of an authority on rare books, and gives me advice from time to time. I thought that you would appreciate it.” His tone, do what he might, sounded wistful.

“I do. And I’d love to keep it.” She wrapped up the missal in its paper, hastily but still careful of its age and condition.

“Please, won’t you keep it, Stacie? I’d like to think that you would read it and look at it, and take care of it.” He wondered what else he could say; for some reason, it felt important that she should accept the gift: if she accepted it, she might accept him.

Unsure, she hesitated for a moment, then shrugged. “Very well, I will. Thank-you very much indeed. I will treasure it.”

He smiled, trying to disguise the surge of feeling that went through him. “Thank-you,” he said, meaning it. “I should be going. It’ll take a couple of hours to drive back to London.”

“Do be careful, Jerry,” Stacie said, stowing the precious missal carefully in her bag. “It’s getting jolly cold, and there’ll probably be a frost tonight.”

“I had a bad smash in my second year,” he confessed. “It was in the Alfa I had before this girl,” he patted the curving mudguard affectionately, which made Stacie smile, “and since then I’ve been a little less reckless on the road. I think the need for speed is sublimated into flying, instead. I’d like to take you up in the Cub one day,” he added abruptly.

“I’d like that,” she replied, surprising herself.

Saint-George put up a warm hand and caressed her cold cheek; Stacie felt stunned. He leaned forward and kissed her very gently, then drew back. They looked at each other, neither unmoved.

“I suppose I should apologise for that,” he said, huskily, “but I’m not sorry.”

Stacie shook her head. “I don’t think you need.” She smiled, rather shakily. “Gosh.”

He grinned, suddenly very happy. “Quite. My dear.” The endearment came unconsciously to his lips – much as the kiss had done.

Then her arms were round him briefly; for a moment, her head was against his shoulder; his heart thumped: she disengaged her arms and looked at him, eyes shining. “Thank-you for a lovely day, Jerry, and my beautiful present. Do drive safely.”

He climbed inside the car, started the engine, switched on the headlights, put on driving gauntlets and a cap, then let out the clutch and was gone with a wave and flourish. Stacie waved, and made her way into college.

She was very quiet and abstracted at dinner, and although Beth observed this with some suspicion of the truth, she made no attempt to force her friend’s confidence.

*

Helen Wimsey, Duchess of Denver, sat in the library of her London home, reflecting briefly that at least it was warmer than Denver. Meg, she thought, had been particularly tiresome that day, making a tantrum at the dress-maker’s about her Court dress, and then scowling over the very fine rope of pearls which her mother proposed she wear for her presentation. The Duchess had had enough of such childish behaviour, and had threatened to postpone the presentation completely until next year. This threat had reduced Meg to a certain degree of acquiescence, and now the Duchess was frowning over the guest list for her party. It was seldom that she approved of her son, but at least she had been able to leave Jerry’s Court presentation to her husband.

A thought struck her: should she invite her brother-in-law and his wife? Both Peter and Harriet would probably decline the invitation, even if Peter was in the country, and not trotting round Europe talking to foreign ministers and suchlike. Still, they ought to be invited. She was still not entirely reconciled to Harriet, but at least she could be trusted to behave in public, even if it was not her natural milieu.

She was making alterations to her list when the door opened and her son entered in. “Oh, sorry, Mater,” he said. “Shall I buzz off?”

“I’m only trying to make a list for Meg’s party. Perhaps you could suggest some names.”

Saint-George sank down on one of the chesterfields and stretched out his legs. He proffered the names of some of his friends, and found that most of them were on the guest list already. He advised against the invitation of “young Channon” who was, he said, likely to get drunk and try to perform some sort of daring stunt. Charles Channon’s name was therefore crossed out decisively, and the Duchess looked on her son with a certain degree of favour.

“Have you been out today?” she asked.

“Yes, up to Oxford,” he responded. “The car ran beautifully after her overhaul.” He waited for another comment, but his mother merely observed absently, “Good, good,” and returned to her plans.

Saint-George was not entirely unhappy at this withdrawal: he thought about his day, and the feelings that Stacie engendered in him; and was a little surprised at himself. None of his previous girlfriends – and there had been many – had inspired an iota of this emotion in him. He liked almost everything about her: her intelligence, her honesty, her sense of self, her looks; liked too, if he was being honest, the man he was with her. He would broach a meeting between her and his parents later, but he was quite sure that time would only deepen his feelings for her.

The Duchess, not realising that these thoughts were passing through Saint-George’s mind, was revolving in her own mind girls who would be suitable for Jerry. She had wondered for some time whether or not an early marriage might help Jerry to settle down and become the heir his father wanted. But he was not yet twenty-five, and to her mind, that was a very young age for a man to think about marriage. Still, it was a possibility, and if Meg weren’t so self-absorbed, she would have been the ideal person to sound for details of girls of whom the duchess knew only their name and family. But her daughter was always irritatingly vague about her friends, and trying to dig deeper inevitably ended in frustration or confusion due to Meg’s inconsequence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Julian ‘Jill’ Buchan was a character I created years ago for a Girlsown communal drabble, and then transported to the Chalet School, but I never wrote much more than a couple of chapters of her story there.
> 
> Edward Heath (the former UK Prime Minister) was actually Balliol’s organ scholar at this time. No resemblance is intended!


End file.
